I Won't Forget
by onlyconsultingdetective
Summary: On his first day of attending Newberry Private Academy, John Watson tripped and fell on his face while navigating the confusing new school grounds. Face burning with embarrassment, he stumbled up and saw a tall, pale boy looking at him curiously. They were an odd pair of friends, everyone thought so, the Holmes and Watson duo.
1. Prologue

If fifteen years later someone asked John exactly what happened on that day, he wouldn't be able to tell them a thing about the movie they watched. He wouldn't be able to remember the classroom, who the teacher was, or any of his other classmates in that room with him. Classmates who he had once called his closest friends.

He would be able to tell them exactly the way Sherlock's hand felt clasped over his, the warmth seeping into his skin. He would be able to tell them exactly how it felt to have his heart hammering as their fingers locked together. How Sherlock looked when he smiled at John, open and heartbreakingly beautiful.

John would be able to tell them how it all happened.


	2. Acceptance Letter

For the fifth time since he first received it, John opened Newberry Academy's ten page program and read it cover to cover.

He visited the school campus twice already.

It had become something close to an obsession. And quite and unhealthy one as John knew the odds of getting into Newberry Academy were practically nonexistent; hundreds of thousands of students applied annually. It was arguably the most prestigious boarding school in Britain.

Less than five percent of those who apply are ever accepted, and they were the most prodigious, talented and all-out flawless teens in Britain.

Still, John knew he HAD to get in. Irrational as it was.

The school he was at would not help him get into Cambridge and become a doctor. His social studies teacher was also his gym teacher. His math teacher was also his English teacher.

John had to get into Newberry or his hopes and dreams have already perished.

Adjusting his tie in his bedroom mirror, John sucked in a deep breath. The day that filled his gut with dread and anticipation was here.

He stood no chance from his application alone. There was nothing remotely spectacular about his academics, nor his extra-curricular, par from occasional wins the school rugby matches. No, all John had going for him was this interview.

Memories of his dad sitting up with him by his bed in the middle of the night to read aloud medical journals to John floated into his mind, and a small smile made its way onto John's mouth.

He had a vast array of medical knowledge, all gained from reading the hundreds medical books sitting on their shelves. John could only hope that he'd be able to demonstrate that during the interview.

* * *

"Mr. Watson, it says on the file that you wish to become a doctor?"

"Yes. I've always been fascinated by the human anatomy. My father was a doctor, and so was my grandfather."

The woman across smiled slightly and typed something on her laptop.

"Would you be able to list for me the major structures that can be identified on the anterior wrist are, from lateral to medial?" She asked.

"Radial artery, flexor carpi radialis, palmaris longus, flexor digitorum superficialis, ulnar artery, medial to which is the ulnar nerve, and flexor carpi ulnaris."

She nodded. "That's correct."

"We'll go into further detail regarding the human hand. Can you tell me about the nerves of the hand?"

John pictured the diagrams he'd read about the human hand. "The hand is supplied by the median, ulnar, and radial nerves. The motor fibers to the intrinsic muscles of the hand, which are carried by the median and ulnar nerves, are derived from the T1 segment of the spinal cord."

"Also correct. Lastly, what are the characteristic features of peripheral nerves?"

"Well, the branches of major peripheral nerves are usually muscular, cutaneous or mucosal, articular, vascular, and terminal. Muscular branches are the most important: section of even a small muscular branch results in complete paralysis of all muscle fibers supplied by that branch and may be seriously disabling. The importance of sensory loss varies, but such loss is most disabling in the hand, head, and face. Peripheral nerves vary in their course and distribution, but not as much as blood vessels do. Adjacent nerves may communicate with each other. Such communications sometimes account for residual sensation or movement after damage to a nerve above the level of a communication."

She looked up and blinked. "Very impressive Mr. Watson." She smiled and typed something. "I must say, in all the years I've been interviewing students for Newberry Academy, I've never gotten the privilege of meeting a student with quite as much medical knowledge as you Mr. Watson."

"Thank you. I have been reading medical journals and books for as long I can remember."

"You are 15 years old, correct?"

John nodded.

"I have been a professor at Newberry for ten years now, and I still have yet to come across a student who seems to have as much potential and enthusiasm for doctoring as you. I'll put in a good word for you. I hope to see you as a student next year at Newberry Academy."

John let out the breath he hadn't know he'd been holding. The interviewer thought he had potential. Maybe he had a chance after all.

The woman got up and shook John's hand. "Best of luck Mr. Watson."

As John walked out of the office, he couldn't keep a huge smile off his face.

* * *

When John wasn't reading medical books, or obsessing over Newberry's offered classes and clubs, he had a girlfriend.

Her name was Anna. Big green eyes with long blonde hair. John liked everything about her, she was kind, funny, smart, and she always supported him. They'd been dating for two years now.

So when she broke up with him several days after the interview, John expected to be heart broken. He expected to feel numb.

"John, I'm sorry," she said. "I just don't think that there is a point in prolonging our relationship when neither of us are able to devote 100% to this."

John hadn't bothered to argue with her. He knew it was true. While they were both fond of each other and the cuddles on the sofa; they just didn't have the similarities or the spark they needed to last.

He'd felt slightly sad as he kissed her goodbye, but it was hardly heartbreaking to see her go.

John felt horrible that his two-year first relationship just ended and he felt nothing.

* * *

As the day when the letters would be mailed rolled around, John couldn't stop bouncing around.

"John. Stop pacing. You're giving me a headache."

He stopped his circling of the living room and smiled sheepishly at his mother.

"I'm just so excited."

His mother smiled. "You'll get in Johnny. You're just like your father, you know way too much about medical rubbish."

John couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to be in Newberry, to belong to an school that prestigious.

He started pacing again.

Finally, the doorbell rang. John tore through the house and wrenched the door open. The mailman handed him an envelope.

His heart started pounding. It felt heavy, John thought hopefully as he weighed the envelope in his hand.

He made his way to the living room and sat next to his mom. Slowly he began slicing open the paper with the letter-opener. Finally, he pulled out the folded sheets of paper.

His vision blurred as he read the words over and over again. He couldn't believe it.

Suddenly, his dream of becoming a world-wide known doctor didn't seem so far or extravagant now.

Suddenly, he could see himself shaking hands with the teaching staff of Cambridge.

He got accepted.


	3. Standing Ovation

It was the first day of orientation at Newberry Academy and today they were going to the auditorium to watch a performance by the advanced orchestra.

It could hardly be considered an auditorium. John suspected that the cost to build the auditorium surpassed the entire cost to build his last school. There were tall arches that decorated the five entrances, all made of a rich red mahogany. The ceilings seemed infinitely high with patterns carved intricately into a mural across the walls and ceilings.

Red velvet curtains fell gracefully onto the stage. Crystal and white gold chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow onto the stage.

John tried not to gape as they walked in.

Once seated, he attempted to start a conversation with the student he had been assigned to follow around all day. This earned him a hard look and a shush motion.

John quieted and stared at the stage. The lights dimmed and after what seemed like an infinity, the curtains slowly rose.

The entire orchestra seemed impossibly poised as they positioned their instruments.

Later John wouldn't be able to remember the name of the piece, or how it ended. He wouldn't be able to remember whether it was gentle, or harsh, or if it was light or dark.

John would be able to remember exactly the way a tall boy looked as he delicately dragged his bow across the maroon violin, a brilliant contrast against his marble like skin. The way he rocked ever so slightly to the alluring sounds drifting from his violin.

* * *

When he was seven, his mom attempted to start giving John lessons from a private violin teacher. At first, John was mesmerized the beautiful instrument and the sounds that his teacher could drag from it. Soon though, he learned just how difficult it was to actually play. He grew sick of the shrill sounds he kept making every time he pulled the bow.

After a mere two weeks, he completely abandoned the violin. His mother decided to not push, seeing the glares he would shoot the instrument every time he went near it.

John figured that it was still up in their attic, gathering dust and completely untouched for eight years.

Once he turned eight, his birthday present was a chance at another instrument. The piano. Once again, he was completely fascinated by it.

Three weeks later, like a wheel spinning again, he grew tired of it.

He wasn't sure where the piano ended up.

As John thought about it now, the only thing he'd really ever stuck to was his medical interest. Long nights spent reading over every medical book in their bookshelf.

John marked a tally for every book or journal he finished. He was only a fourth way through their collection.

Even though he would have far less time to read them once he starts attending Newberry, he made a plan to bring back one book each weekend he goes back home.

* * *

John felt a pang of regret he never stuck through with the violin as he watched the boy. Really, it was unfair how graceful and perfect he looked on the stage. Of course the other musicians were talented and perfect as well, but John really couldn't tear his eyes off of him long enough to notice anyone else.

When the last hum from the orchestra drew to a slow stop, John stood up and clapped until his hands were sore.

* * *

After orientation week wrapped up, John went home more excited than ever about the school. In his eyes, it was the dream school.

But it wasn't the beauty or intellectual standards of the school that kept popping up in his dreams.

He didn't even know the boy's name, but he knew that there was something special about that violinist.

* * *

First day of school.

A slightly panicked and overly-excited John Watson stumbled through the halls. He looked down at the map and furrowed his brows.

They called the first floor "the maze" for a reason.

There were over two hundred classroom on the first floor alone.

He had a week to get used to the confusing school grounds, but he had been following a student and stupidly not paying attention to the hallways.

John scolded himself for being so unobservant and burrowed his head into the map.

Room 1158? That way, or is it to the left?! John thought frantically.

At this rate, he was going to be so late to first period.

Wrapped up in his worries, he doesn't notice the cupid statue in front of him.

He walked straight into the cupid arrow.

Yelping from both the shock and pain of the stone digging into his chest, he stumbled and fell on his arse.

Facing burning, John scrambled to get back onto his feet.

Momentarily relieved that there were almost no students in the hallway, he sighed and tried to calm down.

"Turn left, walk to the end of the hall, then take a right. It should be the first room you see."

John jumped. The deep timbre startling him into almost dropping his bag again.

Swerving around, John met the gaze of an mildly amused student looking curiously at him.

As recognition became to dawn on John, his face started burning again. He wondered briefly if he was doomed to blush forever in front of this boy.

Of course. If he had to walk into a stone arrow and then proceed to fall on his face, it would be in front of the violinist.

"Thanks," John managed. Finally recovered enough to say something. "How did you know which room I was going to?"

"The route you were taking and when you fell I saw the room number scribbled on your hand."

John looked down and saw the number scrawled messily onto his hand.

"Oh."

"I'm heading to that class as well."

John tried to match the boy's long strides as they quickly walked towards the class.

"What's your name?" John asked.

"Sherlock Holmes."

John waited for Sherlock to ask him for his name as well.

After some silence, he smiled awkwardly at Sherlock. "I'm John. It's nice to meet you."

Sherlock didn't say anything to that.

They were nearing the classroom when Sherlock broke the silence and suddenly started speaking rapidly.

"You're a medical student, you have two, no, one sister. You come from a middle class background. Your father was a medical man as well, and you want to follow his footsteps. You're sister is a drunk, but you continue to support her. Your mother approves of your ambitions but she wishes that you would relax once in a while. You are extremely excited to attend this school and you haven't been sleeping well in the past few days due to your anticipation."

John's eyes widened. "H-how," he stuttered. "Did you know all that?

Sherlock's lips tugged up into a faint smirk and walked into the classroom without another word.


	4. Partners in Crime

When John stepped into the classroom, all twenty eyes fixed onto him and Sherlock.

"You two gentlemen are ten minutes late. Care to explain?"

John shuffled. He didn't really want to tell the teacher that he got lost and fell on his arse.

"We had to speak with our counselor. We had been placed in the wrong classes," Sherlock lied smoothly.

The teacher narrowed his eyes and studied Sherlock for a moment. After some pondering, he nodded slowly. "Alright. The next time you are late to my class, you'll receive a detention. Since it's the first day of school, I'll let it slide."

He pointed to the only two empty seats in the class.

Sherlock took the one in the back, leaving John to sit next to a pretty brunette.

"I've already taken attendance. What is your name young man?" The teacher looked at John.

"John Watson."

And from the back of the room came a drawl. "Sherlock Holmes."

Upon hearing the name, John saw the brunette sitting next to him twitch slightly.

"My name is Mr. Wallace. This is Honors Chemistry, but I want to start the school year off with something different."

Mr. Wallace walked over to the smart board and wrote in large curving letters: Forensics Science

"While this isn't directly relevant to chemistry, I think it would be a good activity to cover this week. Since it is everyone's first year here at Newberry, I want the first week to be fun and to be an opportunity to work with a fellow classmate and get to know them better."

"Now." He grabbed the stack of papers near his desk. "First fill out this sheet, to test your basic knowledge on forensics. Then you will choose a partner in this class."

Once he passed them out, John stared at his paper with furrowed brows.

 **1.** Ted Bundy was an American serial killer who was convicted on the basis of which type of forensic evidence?

a) DNA fingerprinting  
b) Ballistics  
c) Latent fingerprinting  
d) Bite marks

 **2.** In October 1974 part of a male torso was found floating in the River Thames in England. Several parts, including the head and hands, were missing so police could not use the usual methods of fingerprints, facial features and dental records to identify the corpse. How was it eventually identified?

a) Presence of gallstones  
b) All the choices are correct  
c) Blood type  
d) Skeletal characteristics demonstrated on x-ray

 **3.** The time of death can be calculated by various means. One is rigor mortis, Latin for 'the stiffness of death'. Another indication is livor mortis or lividity. What does this term refer to?

a) Cloudiness in the eyes  
b) Relaxation of muscles susbequent to rigor mortis  
c) Degree of digestion of stomach contents  
d) Gravitational pooling of blood

 **4.** Lord Louis Mountbatten, a cousin of Queen Elizabeth II, was blown to pieces in 1979 when an IRA bomb exploded on his yacht. How did police link the murderer, Thomas McMahon, to the crime scene?

a) Matching paint samples  
b) All the choices are correct  
c) Matching sand samples  
d) Trace evidence of nitroglycerine

 **5.** In 1835, Henry Goddard was asked to investigate a burglary in Southampton, England. The butler said a shot had been fired as he struggled with the burglars. Goddard retrieved the bullet and disproved the butler's version of events by using which technique?

a) Bullet comparison  
b) Studying the broken glass  
c) Studying the bullet's trajectory  
d) Blood spatter analysis  
 **  
6.** In Knoxville, Tennessee, there is a research facility, popularly known as 'the Body Farm', where research is conducted into the nature of human decomposition and the factors which affect the rate at which it occurs. Who was responsible for the creation of this facility?

a) Gil Grissom  
b) Ernest T Bass  
c) William Bass  
d) William (Bill) Clinton

 **7.** It is the function of a coroner to conduct inquiries into all deaths which are not natural or expected. However, originally the job of coroner was to perform which of the following functions?

a) Safeguarding the monarch's property  
b) Tax collector  
c) All the choices are correct  
d) Trying felony cases

 **8.** What is studied in forensic palynology?

a) Fossilised micro-organisms  
b) Soils  
c) Pollens and spores  
d) Dust

 **9.** If you know what to look for, you can tell a male from a female skull. Which of the following statements is FALSE?

a) The male skull is usually larger  
b) The male skull has a more prominent brow ridge  
c) The male skull has a heavier jaw  
d) The male skull has a more rounded chin

He didn't know anything about the past crime cases.

The ones that were medical he understood easily.

After some guessing, John finished his sheet.

He looked at the girl next to him and felt a stab of curiosity. Why had she twitched when she heard Sherlock's name.

The boy seemed so mysterious and John had a sudden itch to get to know him.

Once she finished her sheet, he turned towards her and smiled.

"What's your name?" His voice was low, as to not alert the teacher he was talking.

"Molly Hooper." She smiled at him.

"I'm John, but you already knew that."

"Yeah. I heard Mr. Wallace is pretty hard on late-comers," she said.

"Are you a first year?"

Molly nodded. "Everyone in this class is."

John wondered why Sherlock was in this class. He should be at least a second year, since he was in advanced orchestra.

"Do you know anything about Sherlock Holmes?" He finally asked.

Something brightened in her eyes. "Of course. He's practically famous in this school. He only started officially attending this year, but he's been sort of recruited for orchestra here for three years already."

Ah. That explains it.

Then something shifted on her face. "But I've heard he is notorious for being difficult. Not a people person at all."

Mr. Wallace cleared his throat. "Please turn them in at the end of class; I'll be reviewing them later and I'll plan your classwork this week based on them."

"Now, you guys will pair up and start the project that's due the end of this week. You can choose any case that involved modern day forensics and make a presentation that covers the biological aspects and a case study of the crime."

"I'll give you five minutes to find a partner."

John was going to ask Molly when a girl came over and paired up with her instead. John turned and scanned the room for anyone who was still free.

"You want to be a doctor."

He turned and saw Sherlock two feet away and looking at John intently.

"Yes."

"You know a lot about human biology?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, almost too much."

"Then it's only logical that we be partners. I've made it a personal interest to study past criminal cases. Between my vast knowledge of well, everything" John arched a skeptical eyebrow at that, "and your obsession with becoming a doctor, we would easily have the best project in this class."

"Okay," John said.

"Great." Sherlock dropped his bag sat next to John. He got out a blue notebook. "I've already made a list of potential cases we can look at."

John quickly looked over them. One seemed familiar.

"The third one, isn't that an unsolved case?"

Sherlock nodded. "These are call cold cases. They seemed pretty simple, I figure it would take us a couple hours to crack them. We can move on to the project from there."

John blinked. His mouth opened. Then closed. "You realize that these are cases that Scotland Yard has poured over for years. We can't possibly solve these with just old police records in several hours."

He smirked. "I am far more intelligent then the Neanderthals at the station. I've already cracked over thirty police cases."

If it was possible, John's eyes widened even further. "They hired a fifteen year old?!"

Sherlock shook his head. "I've already tried that. Apparently I'm not old enough. I just look up articles and on the cases and I call in anonymous tips. I'm never wrong."

John stared at him "Well, if what you're saying is true—"

"—it is," Sherlock interrupted.

John let out a small laugh. "Then you are amazing."

The other boy seemed to jerk. "Amazing?"

John blushed slightly. "Yes. Absolutely amazing. I can't imagine someone able to do all that with just news broadcasts and internet articles."

Sherlock smiled. It almost seemed shy.

* * *

By the end of eighth period, John could hardly believe that it was a mere nine hours ago when he kissed his mom goodbye, dropped his bags off in the theatre, and proceeded to get lost in the hallways.

Unbelievably, Sherlock ended up being in all the same classes as John, except for PE. John had no idea where Sherlock disappeared off to.

Now, eight classes and three projects plus two homework assignments later, John is herded back to the theatre along with the rest of the first years.

A woman John assumed is the headmaster stepped onto the stage. She grabbed the microphone. "We hope that you all had a good first day here at Newberry Academy. If you need help getting adjusted, please just stop by my office or your counselor. We are here from five to nine."

"The luggage's that you all dropped off this morning in the theatre with a name tag and student number has been moved to the appropriate dorm room. If you do not see your bags in the room, please come to the main office and we will locate it. When you are ready to go to your room, please come to main office and check in. We will give you your room number and the name of the person you will be sharing with."

"Security will be posted on both sides of the dorms to ensure that boys do not enter the girls dormitory and vice versa."

"Please remember that curfew is nine and you are allowed to go anywhere on this campus. If you wish to go off campus anytime during the week, you must receive a special slip from me giving you permission to do so. Breakfast is held in the mess hall and it starts at six and ends at seven. Your first period promptly starts at 7:30"

"Thank you, that is all. You are dismissed."

* * *

Mike glanced down at his phone. "It's almost eight, I should go talk to Melinda."

John nodded. In the few short hours since he met Mike, he's told him about Melinda, his girlfriend and how they were fighting.

John had to go check his room assignments. He hoped that he liked his roommate; he would have to share a room with him for the next four years.

He made his way to the office. He checked in and looked at his listing.

He read over the two names again.

Dread and euphoria washed over John as he double checked that he read it correctly.

Then a familiar voice rumbled behind him, "Looks like we'll be spending a lot of time together, John Watson."


	5. First Night

Once John regained his breath and his heart started beating again, he turned around and smiled at Sherlock, far more calmly than he felt inside. John wouldn't be able to pin down how he was feeling with a gun to his head.

John could already sense that if he let Sherlock get too close, he would be completely and irrationally enraptured with this boy for the rest of his life.

Really, it should've been ridiculous to think like this, when he'd only just met Sherlock.

If only his brain were rational, instead it unhelpfully supplied John with hundreds of images of Sherlock looking ethereal playing the violin, of Sherlock laughing at something John said offhandedly, of him genuinely smiling when John called him amazing.

John tried to clear these traitorous images as they walked out of the office.

"Do you like the violin?"

If John had been drinking something, he would've choked just then. It was alarming that he'd been practically day-dreaming about how elegant he looked with that damn violin just moments ago.

In an attempt to recompose himself, he chose to not reply verbally and nodded instead.

"Good. Sometimes I play for hours and into the night. I can put the muffler on, but it dilutes the sound and I prefer to play without it. If it bothers you, I suppose you could schedule a meeting with the headmaster and apply for a new room-mate, but…" Sherlock trailed off.

He got his voice back and quickly said "Oh no, it's fine. I actually enjoy the violin. I used to play when I was younger."

Sherlock slowed his pace and half turned to face John. He cocked his head and something sparked in his pale eyes. "You played the violin?"

"For two weeks."

Surprisingly, Sherlock laughed lightly. "Of course. I didn't peg you as a musician."

John grinned. "Are you always right about people?"

"Usually."

John's voice lowered teasingly. "Then I plan to be as mysterious as possible. Wouldn't want you to get too confident."

He looked up at those remarkable eyes and held Sherlock's gaze. John felt significantly more bold.

"Is that a challenge?"

"Do you want it to be?" John smirked.

Sherlock's eyes were piercing and his gaze never wavered as he looked at John; his face was kept carefully neutral. Several seconds later, the corner of his mouth twitched and a slow smile spread out over his face.

* * *

John couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard.

Or had been more stunned.

They stayed up until well-past curfew talking and it seemed that John was constantly stuck between being utterly gobsmacked with Sherlock's brilliance, or breaking out in bouts of laughter at his dry humor.

He could hardly believe the boy who was currently laughing so hard he couldn't speak was the same boy he'd first met in the morning. Already, Sherlock seemed to be a study in contrasts.

"Wait—" Sherlock shook with giggles. "—your history teacher actually made you go do a hundred jumping jacks outside because you answered it correctly?"

John chuckled. "He called it smart arsing. I think he just really hated me."

Sherlock bit down on his lip as if trying to stop laughing. John could still see mirth lighting his eyes.

Finally John glanced down at his phone to check the time.

All the air got knocked out of his lungs.

"John?" Sherlock asked, obviously observing the mini-panic attack John was currently having.

"It's 1:04. And I still haven't done any of my homework," John managed.

Sherlock looked at him, unconcerned. "So? I haven't done mine either."

"I'd rather not get expelled the first day I get here. You realize we have to do our homework right?"

"Please," he scoffed. "We'd hardly be expelled for it."

John shot him a evil look.

Sherlock got up from his armchair and grabbed his backpack. He sat down to his desk and turned on the study light.

"We have the same homework. It doesn't take me long so we can do it together."

He felt a odd warmth in his stomach and smiled at Sherlock. He grabbed the chair by his desk and dragged it to sit next to Sherlock.

* * *

They finished all their homework and finished the initial research on their forensics project together around 2:30 am. John sighed and realized that he'd get about four hours of sleep at most.

Wearily, he put everything in his backpack, dragged his feet to the bathroom and got ready for sleep.

He was exhausted, the adrenaline of his first day finally wearing off. He sent a quick email to his mom telling her that he couldn't call her right now, but that he had a good day and would talk to her tomorrow.

John climbed into the bed and was about to drift off into sleep when he realized something was off.

He sat up and looked over, expecting to see Sherlock in bed as well. Instead he appeared to be standing and staring off into space. His lamp was still on.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked. "Yes?"

"It's almost three. Go to bed."

He shook his head. "I'm thinking."

John propped himself onto his elbows. "What about?"

Sherlock half turned towards John and a small smile flickered, gone as fast as it came. "You."

John's breath caught.

"You are quite the enigma, John Watson."

John felt another surge of warmth and heart quickened at the sight of the pale moonlight softly illuminating Sherlock's profile.

While it was still true that they'd still only met just that morning, it suddenly didn't seem so ridiculous to think that he could get lost in Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

John blinked blearily. A face fuzzily came into view. Some part of his sleepy brain recognized that it was Sherlock, whose face was currently only several inches away from John's.

Half asleep, John smiled languidly and reached up for Sherlock. _I bet those curls are as soft as they look_. As his senses started coming back, John slowly became aware that he was closing that already minuscule gap between he and Sherlock. John yelped, fully awake now. In his haste to distance himself from the all too inviting looking Sherlock, he violently snatched away his hand, dangerously close to Sherlock's curls, and accidentally slamming it against the wood of the bed. John also scuttled away so fast that he forgot there wasn't a wall behind him and tumbled off the bed.

Wincing, John scrambled up back onto the bed. He glared at Sherlock and rubbed his arm.

"Oh my god," Sherlock gasped, cackling with laughter. "You. You—"

John found it difficult to keep the scowl on his face when Sherlock was absolutely gasping with laugher. It was contagious.

"You practically fainted."

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked away from Sherlock, trying hard to not blush and embarrass himself further.

"I did not faint," John huffed. "I was just surprised. Do you have any sense of privacy?"

Sherlock looked amused, even as the giggles wore off. "You didn't wake up even after I called your name five times. I decided it was time for more drastic measures." He smirked as he continued, "You're lucky I didn't decide to try mouth to mouth resuscitation."

John felt the blush on his cheek deepen, and the tips of his ears flushing warmly.

"What time is it?" John asked.

He didn't glance at the clock as he replied, "Five minutes after seven."

John's heart almost stopped again, for the second time since he woke up.

Sherlock read the panicked expression on his face. "I didn't want to wake you. I already went down to the breakfast hall and brought you back some food." He gestured to the table. "It's over there. I didn't know what you liked, so I got a bit of everything."

John smiled. "Thanks."

"You'll probably want to eat quickly. Class starts in about twenty minutes, and I'm sure you'd rather not be late to Mr. Wallace's again."


	6. A Small Test

Under normal circumstances, John might've thought it strange that he was watching a boy break into the Scotland Yard crime database on his computer. Then again, there was nothing normal about Sherlock Holmes.

It was Tuesday night, and after a mere day and a half of knowing each other, they were huddled together on Sherlock's bed and breaking god-knows how many laws his laptop.

After some promises from Sherlock that the police wouldn't be able to trace it back to John's laptop because he was taking down the firewall and other technicalities that John couldn't understand, Sherlock was opening up the entire archival collection and police reports of Scotland Yard.

"I thought you said that you were able to solve these cold cases with just news articles?" John asked pointedly.

Sherlock grinned. "Usually. The one I chose for our project was a bit more difficult. I wasn't planning on having to use the archives for it, but you saw how useless those news articles were." He shrugged and went back to skimming the report.

John rolled his cramped shoulders, they'd been researching this case for hours now. Leaning against the concrete wall on a twin bed wasn't the most comfortable position.

He figured he wouldn't be much help now anyways, Sherlock seemed to be doing fine. After John checked the time and saw it was almost midnight, he decided they were going to need some caffeine if they were going to pull another all-nighter.

Luckily, their dorm room came with a coffee maker, and an electric kettle, plus a daily supply of water in the water cooler.

He turned back to Sherlock, who was still curled into a ball and scrolling on the laptop. His face was illuminated by the soft glow from the screen. John had an inexplicable urge to smile.

"Do you want coffee or tea?" John asked.

"Hm?" Sherlock glanced up momentarily. "Oh, coffee will be fine. Black, two sugars."

John a cup of tea and a coffee. After stirring in the sugar, he walked back over to the bed and held it out to Sherlock.

Sherlock eyed his cup warily. "Did you stir in the two sugars?"

He nodded and tried handing it to Sherlock again.

Still Sherlock wouldn't take it. "I prefer to add it in myself."

John's eyebrows raised. "You what? You do realize that two spoons of sugar are two spoons of sugar no matter who adds it in."

Sherlock blinked at him. "It tastes different to me."

His eyes widened. "Are you seriously telling me that you cannot drink coffee unless you add in the two sugars yourself?"

"Yes."

"Okay then." John sat down on the bed and plopped Sherlock's cup onto the desk next to them. He leaned back against the wall and slowly sipped at his tea.

He could feel Sherlock staring intensely at him.

Finally he got bored of ignoring Sherlock's stare and re-reading the same page that was shown on his laptop.

He turned to Sherlock. "Yes?"

"Where's my coffee?"

John nodded towards the abandoned mug on the desk. "Over there."

"But I can't drink that."

He shrugged. "Not my problem. You asked me for black coffee with two sugars. That's what I made. If you want another cup, go make it yourself."

Sherlock stayed silent. After several more minutes of John staying nonchalant and the other boy glaring a hole into the back of his head, Sherlock got up and padded to the coffee maker.

As he heard the tell-tale gurgling of the coffee maker, John grinned and had a feeling that he just won a game he didn't know they were having.

* * *

"Sherlock," John hissed.

"Mmhm?"

"Why are we breaking into Scotland Yard?"

"You saw that last night's research wasn't sufficient."

John glared at him. "We are breaking curfew, sneaking out of campus, and breaking about fifty different laws right now. All for a school project?!"

Sherlock shrugged and continued his search through the file cabinet.

"We could get expelled, or even arrested!"

He momentarily stopped thumbing through the folders to turn and look at John. "I gave you the option of not coming."

"I wasn't about to let you sneak into Scotland Yard alone. We are partners for the damn project."

He grinned. "Exactly. Now, If you would get over here and go through the files with me, we might be finished soon." He threw another pair of black leather gloves to John. It hit him square in the chest.

John sighed and made his way over to Sherlock.

He pulled on the gloves. "You're an idiot, you know?"

Sherlock chuckled. "I know."

"Wait, wait." John stopped and pointed to the throat of corpse in the picture.

"According to the coroner's report—" John flipped back to the file, "—asphyxiation was the cause of death, hence the bruising and damage around throat."

Sherlock nodded.

"But look at the coloring. The bruising was clearly post-mortem."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully.

John felt a small rush of euphoria as he explained. "The time of death was established to be around noon, and the body was found almost two days later. If the victim had been strangled, then the bruises should be yellowing, since it had been far longer than 18 hours."

Sherlock pursued his lips and shook his head. "Gross naked eye and photographic assessment is not always accurate. Yellowing or browning of bruises can take weeks to appear. I did an experiment."

John arched an eyebrow. "Should I ask how?"

"Probably not," Sherlock said with a small smile.

"It's true that the science of bruising over time varies," John admitted. "But these bruises are clearly fresh, and by eyeballing it, I'd say maybe an hour or two at most before the photograph was taken."

"And? What do you suggest is the actual cause of death then?" Sherlock asked.

John glanced at the coroner's report again. "Since the cause of death was immediately ruled as asphyxiation, there was no autopsy of the body. Only a preliminary drugs test was run on the body. I'd say that some sort of poison was injected into the bloodstream, I can't list them all on the top of my head, but there are several that would be virtually undetectable unless specifically tested for."

A small grin tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips. "I knew you'd get there eventually."

John looked at him blankly. "What?"

"Of course I'd known that the second I glanced at the report. I did say that I knew everything."

He blinked. "You're kidding me, right Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged. "If it helps with solving criminal cases, I make it my business to gather all the information on the topic."

"Then why did I—"

He cut John off. "I knew you had a vast knowledge of medicine, but I needed to test your ability in real life situations. So this was a small test." Sherlock grinned. "Congratulations, John. You passed."

John couldn't decide if he wanted to slap him or laugh hysterically.

"Well," John shut the folder. "What's next? We know that the killer poisoned the victim, then realized his mistake. After approximately a day, he went back to the body and left distinguishing marks on the neck that would seem like strangulation. This doesn't narrow the field at all. The killer could be anyone."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, this narrows the field considerably. The killer was intelligent enough to realize his mistake in the first place, and then he had enough medical knowledge to know that bruising can still appear post-mortem. Think about it John, this is not the work of a common criminal."

"But this still doesn't help us with the case. How can we trace this information back to the killer?" John asked.

"Put yourself in the killer's shoes John. Why would he bother taking the effort to stage the death as asphyxiation? To mask the poison. That means that the poison had a clue, a clue that could lead us to the killer."

Sherlock was practically glowing as he hammered out the last sentence. He slammed the folder shut and put it back in the cabinet.

"Well, what do we do next?" John couldn't resist a smile at Sherlock's overjoyed expression..

He smiled. "We find the killer."


	7. Inhibitions

It was Thursday, and John once again found himself abandoning his homework in the middle of the night, and sneaking off to god-knows where with Sherlock Holmes.

Last night, after they'd snuck back into their dorm room at 3 am, he collapsed on the bed and neglected his homework.

Already, he could feel Sherlock becoming an addictive drug to him.

Not to mention dangerous. After he exclaimed to Sherlock that they were fifteen and far too young to chase after criminals in the dead of the night, he was met with an eye roll.

"Please John, I do this all the time. It's just a part of the process."

John glared at him. "There's a lot you haven't mentioned about your 'process", when you said that you'd just read articles and send tips to the police, I didn't think that included breaking into Scotland Yard and chasing after murderers."

Sherlock grinned. "It's a lot more fun."

"Fun?!"

He sighed. "Relax John. I don't actually go and catch the culprit. I'm not completely insane. I just go find out their location and then call the police. I try not to do too much of the dirty work. Apprehending the criminals myself takes too much energy." Sherlock sniffed with disdain and went back to staring at the wall of their room.

The cloak of complete darkness in the school struck around midnight, and John found himself shrugging on his jacket and sneaking out with Sherlock.

They took a taxi to Barts, where they kept the records of the corpses. If the taxi driver thought there was anything odd about two teenage boys taking a ride to the hospital, he didn't say anything.

"You know our project is due tomorrow right?" John said flatly in the car

"Yes."

"Well we don't actually have anything to turn in."

"I already did our report." Sherlock said

"Wait what?"

He sighed. "Must I repeat myself?"

"I'm your partner, why would you do the entire project without me?!"

Sherlock looked at him. "Because I want to solve this case, and you'd keep bugging me about the project if we didn't do it."

"But our whole project was supposed to be about this case."

"I originally anticipated us to solve this case a long time ago, leaving us plenty of time to do the project. But since it didn't turn out how I expected, I did the project yesterday on some solved boring criminal case from twenty years ago. Now with the project over with, can I have your full attention? We need to go into the morgue and look over any notes by the coroner that weren't officially reported."

* * *

It was a week later, and after they'd gathered enough information on the killer to track his whereabouts, it came time to sneak out after curfew again.

They were racing down an alley, and John's heart was pounding in his chest. With each thud of his feet slamming against the dirty pavement, he felt that he was soaring higher and higher. He turned towards Sherlock, who was sprinting next to him, and grinned so wide he thought it might split his face.

Sherlock's electric blue gaze locked with his, and in that moment John knew that Sherlock could read everything in his mind.

How was it that every second John spent with this boy felt like liquid euphoria trickling down his back? Even now, as he knew how dangerous and completely reckless this was, he couldn't stop himself if he tried.

Hell, might as well just admit that it _was_ the threat and promise of danger that thrilled him.

Sherlock Holmes, in a mere week, had peeled back all those layers of that innocent blue-eyed boy who teachers always adored, the boy who obediently did his work and was polite to everyone, the boy who could've never imagined chasing after a violent psychopath at three in the morning.

Sherlock Holmes, in a mere week, tore all those walls down and revealed a boy who now itched at the prospect of breaking boundaries and exploring no matter the consequences. A boy who now wanted to never stop running, never stop following the mad man, Sherlock Holmes.

However, that boy wasn't gone enough to not make John at least try and voice his concerns.

"I thought," he panted, in effort of keeping up with Sherlock's longer strides, "that we didn't have to actually catch the killer?"

Sherlock smirked, a little half smirk that sent frissons down John's spine. "You aren't telling me that you actually mind this?"

John grinned.

* * *

As it turned out, Sherlock must've had a shred of self-preservation, or perhaps he was as much of a genius as he claimed to be, but they two boys didn't end up actually having to tackle the murderer or something as stupid as that.

They tracked him to an abandoned house. It helped that Sherlock and John looked like frisky teenagers up to cause trouble in the middle of the night, and not potentially dangerous crime-fighters. Even though they had been running after the murderer for over five miles, he didn't notice them.

John breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Sherlock pulling out his phone to call Scotland Yard. He didn't really feel like dying today.

He panted and tried to catch his breath, whilst watching Sherlock rattle off to the police on the phone. After what seemed like an eternity of explaining what case it was, who the killer is, and the victim, Sherlock finally got to the location.

"It's an abandoned house right off of Foster Lane and Byward Street." There was a pause and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I can't be more specific than that. You can't miss it. There are wooden planks nailed to the windows and doors. It's the only house near here that looks like that."

John couldn't hear what the police officer was saying to Sherlock, but it was making Sherlock impatient.

Sherlock started pacing and mouthed the word "imbecile" to John while rolling his eyes. John almost smiled at this.

"I'm telling you," Sherlock repeated, clenching his jaw. "All the evidence you need is in that house. If you'll just listen to me—"

John watched as Sherlock became more and more agitated.

"How I obtained this information is none of your business. This is an anonymous tip and if you would just use your brain for one second, you'll know to send officers to this location right away instead of sitting there acting like a complete moron." Sherlock's tone was sharp and cutting, and it made John flinch slightly even though he knew it wasn't directed at him.

Strange how a fifteen year old could sound so cold and dominating.

Finally Sherlock hung up and his phone gave it a murderous glare, as if it were the phone's fault that the police were looking a gift horse in the mouth.

John glanced at his watch and sighed. It was almost 3 am.

"Sherlock, we should stop by the coffee place before we go back to school."

He nodded and the two boys set off running down the street again, with the sound of police sirens behind them.

* * *

They stepped into the small coffee shop, _Angelo's_. It was empty except for a exhausted looking woman typing rapidly on her mac in a booth.

The barista smiled at the two boys when they walked in. They'd become night-regulars in the past two weeks. The coffee shop had the convenience of only being five minutes away from the school.

"Same as always?" The barista asked across the shop.

The two boys nodded and walked over to a small booth.

John plopped down on the cushion and rubbed his eyes. The adrenaline of the chase was finally wearing off and fatigue was setting in.

"Sherlock, I swear, I am going to be falling asleep on your shoulder in science tomorrow."

Faint amusement was dancing on Sherlock's face at John's sleepy mutter.

"Not to worry John. I'll flick some of the hydrochloric acid we're working with at you if you start to fall asleep."

John's chuckle was muffled by the arm he was currently burying his head into. He was so tired, and it was the third night in a row they'd done this.

"Don't you dare. I knew picking you as a lab partner again was a mistake."

Sherlock smirked and flicked the top of John's hair.

The barista came over, holding two small cups in his hand. "Two espressos, double shots each."

"Thank you Billy." John gave him a bleary smile.

John gulped his espresso down, not caring that it scalded his throat. He eyed Sherlock's cup with envy, watching the boy sip at it delicately.

Sherlock looked well-put together as always, not looking at all like he just ran through half of London.

He rolled his eyes and set his saucer down. He pushed his cup over to John. "Really John, if you wanted it, you could've just asked."

Smiling at Sherlock gratefully, John drank the espresso.

"Don't you ever get tired?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Not really. I'm good without sleep for another day or so."

His eyes widened. "That's not healthy Sherlock. "

"It's all just transport."

"Still," John insisted, "you need to take care of yourself."

"Ever the doctor John. Don't worry, I won't go all fainting flower on you. I know what my limits are. Besides, now I've got you as my roommate to watch out for me."

He felt a warm blossom of fondness at Sherlock's words, and he resisted the urge to touch those soft-looking curls.

"We should head back." John said.

Sherlock nodded. He got up and paid the barista. When he turned around, he saw John slumped against the table and looking like he was about to doze off any second.

"John?"

John grunted and batted away Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock smiled. "Come on, do you want me to hoist you over my shoulder and carry you?"

John's head snapped up and tried to glare at Sherlock, but his amusement was barely contained in those blue eyes. "Don't you dare. Let's go, you git."


	8. In Conclusion

If it weren't for Sherlock Holmes, John would've said that his first year at Newberry Academy was rather uneventful.

It was June 10th, and only one more week of school was left before summer break.

After dinner on that Friday night, John grabbed the medical journal he'd been meaning to start, _Epidemiologic Reviews,_ and settled into an old armchair in the living room. As he read the introduction, John once again found his thoughts drifting to Sherlock Holmes.

After spending nearly a year of sharing a room with Sherlock and following the boy everywhere, John had concluded several important things.

First and foremost, the boy was undeniably a genius. He also had a bit of a death wish. Sherlock didn't care about boundaries, or any of the unwritten rules of society. He had a sharp mouth that made ruthless and cutting deductions at the expense of others. Even to John, he could be cruel and thoughtless. For a fifteen year old, Sherlock was extremely cold in appearance. Sherlock could go 48 hours straight with no sleep and accomplish things that should take months with anyone else.

But it wasn't all this that made Sherlock easily the most complex and fascinating person on earth to John, but rather the startling number of contrasts that was within the boy.

Once, out of boredom and reluctant fascination with the boy, John tried making a list of all the topics he knew of and Sherlock's level of expertise at it.

Sherlock knew of practically every murder committed in the last century, yet he didn't know who the Prime Minister was.

Sherlock memorized everything on the periodic table and what their reaction was to each other, yet he didn't know that the earth went around the sun.

A smile played on the corner of John's lips as he recalled the irony of that conversation with the boy who seemed to know everything.

* * *

 _"Sherlock, I still can't believe you did that," John giggled, shutting their dorm door and leaning against it, trying in vain to contain his laughter. It was hours past curfew._

 _The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched as he tried to remain stoic. "I was trying to prove a point."_

 _John was still giggling when he plopped down on his bed and looked up at Sherlock. "What? Were you trying to prove that he didn't know that the earth goes around the sun?_

 _Sherlock looked at John blankly for a moment, the closest thing he'd do to admitting he didn't understand something._

 _John propped himself up on his elbows and smiled. "It's an expression Sherlock." John knew that while Sherlock was a genius, he sometimes didn't know the most basic of common culture._

 _He blinked, still staring at John._

 _A small puff of laughter escaped John's mouth and a fond smile quirked on his mouth. "It's supposed to mean that the person is so unknowledgeable that they don't even know first grade astronomy."_

 _"Oh." Sherlock looked slightly defensive. "Not everyone knows that the earth goes around the sun John."_

 _"Everyone knows that," John said._

 _"No," Sherlock insisted, "some people just might not care about things like that."_

 _"But it's the most—" John stopped, his eyes widening, suddenly taking in Sherlock's uncomfortable posture and tone. He grinned. "Wait, did you not know that the earth goes around the sun?"_

 _Sherlock harrumphed and refused to answer. John could see the beginnings of a blush blooming on his cheeks. John's smile only grew wider._

 _"I must've deleted it," Sherlock said. To most people, he would've seemed as cool and collected as ever, but by now John knows the difference. The slightest twitch in his hand gave his discomfort away. John mused that Sherlock would've been proud of him for noticing that level of detail._

 _"Deleted it?" John echoed._

 _Sherlock walked over and sat next to John on his bed. The intimacy of that move should've made John blush, but he'd found out a long time ago that Sherlock didn't understand boundaries._

 _He didn't mind either way._

 _"I have a system of organization," Sherlock started explaining, pointing to his head. "I treat my brain as if it were a hard drive. See most people cloud their thoughts with all kinds of rubbish, which makes it hard to actually get to the information that matters. I delete those kind of unnecessary things, and only remember what helps me."_

 _"Wow," John said. He suspected he'd never cease at being amazed by Sherlock._

 _The blush deepened on Sherlock's face._

 _"I call it my mind palace," Sherlock said._

 _John pulled up the covers so it covered his knee and scooted closer to Sherlock._

 _"How do you organize your mind palace?" John asked._

 _Though he was interested, it wasn't that John was so completely fascinated with how Sherlock organized his mind palace that he could listen to him talk about for hours, but rather he was fascinated by the way Sherlock would move his arms and hands to emphasize something. The way his eyes would light up when he got excited about something. It was the way his whole body would become so animated when he started talking about something he really cared about._

* * *

John thought about the hundreds of late night conversations they've had on his bed, sometimes they were thoughtful, other times utterly pointless.

He'd always felt in those moments that he was as happy as one could be, just talking with Sherlock Holmes.

But John also didn't fool himself into thinking that Sherlock was always so talkative and amiable. There were moments in Sherlock's behavior that made John so angry and hurt that he wanted to give up and ask the headmaster to be reassigned to a different roommate.

* * *

 _"Shut up John," Sherlock snapped._

 _John flinched as the hateful force of Sherlock's stormy grey eyes were directed at him._

 _"Sherlock," John tried again. "It's not your fault, you're only 15, you couldn't—"_

 _"What do you know?" Sherlock's voice grew dark and flat. "You're just another stupid teenager who doesn't understand anything."_

 _John inhaled sharply, Sherlock's words cutting into his wave of sympathy and turning it into anger._

 _"What should've I have done then?" John nearly shouted, remembering at the last second that it was late. "Let you starve yourself to try and catch this killer?"_

 _Sherlock was seething, his fists clenching and unclenching. "I can take care of myself. The killer is gone forever now because of you."_

 _"I care about you Sherlock, and I'm your friend. I will not apologize for trying to help you." John said slowly, trying to stay calm._

 _"Friends," Sherlock mocked, his face completely devoid of the affection John had seen only five hours ago. "I don't have friends John, don't delude yourself into thinking you are one."_

 _To say it was like a slap in the face would be beyond an understatement. It felt like a hurricane flung him to the ground. John suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe._

 _He shakily grabbed the doorknob and rushed outside, shutting their dorm door and leaning against it._

 _There was nowhere he could go, it was dead in the middle of the night. If he were caught, there was a chance he would be suspended._

 _So John just sat outside their dorm room. He stared at the wall, trying to not think._

* * *

John had given up trying to make a list of Sherlock's attributes, but he had drawn the conclusion that he would never stop following Sherlock through dark alleys at 3 am, or crowded school halls.

Just as John had almost cleared his thoughts enough so that he could go back to his book, his phone rang. It was Sherlock.

"Sherlock," he greeted, smiling even though he couldn't see John.

"Bored."

John chuckled. "Are you at school?"

"Yes. It's boring without you here," Sherlock complained

"Why don't you go back to your house over the weekend then?" John asked

John knew that some people chose to stay at Newberry over the weekend instead of going back every Friday night, and only went back on holidays. But that was only really for students who lived really far away, and as far as he knew Sherlock lived in London.

"Eh," came Sherlock's vague response. "Anyways, what time are you getting here Monday?"

"Probably around 6:15, class starts at 7:30 and I need to drop my stuff off and eat breakfast."

"Good. Earlier the better."

John smiled. "Nice to know I'm missed."

Sherlock groaned. "I've been conducting some experiments with liver but it's really boring. Why can't you be here already?"

John had been considering something, but he wasn't sure. He decided to run it past Sherlock first, but he had already guessed what his response would probably be.

"Maybe next year I'll stay at Newberry over the weekend and go back to my house at the end of the month instead."

"Yes!" Sherlock's voice brightened. "We can get so much more done if you stay over the weekend!"

"By work you don't actually mean homework."

Sherlock laughed. "Of course not. I've found a new burglary case that you might be interested in helping me with. The security footage hasn't been tampered with, yet there isn't a single trace of the burglar on the tape."

"What store?"

"Some maximum-security jewelry store. Really, even I thought it was impressive that someone pulled that off."

"Alright, we'll take a look at it when I get back Monday."

John heard a faint beep from Sherlock's side.

"I should go John, the liver's going to explode in twenty seconds if I don't go get it."

"Don't destroy anything," John warned, imaging the dorm a complete mess when he gets there.

"I won't. Good night John."

"Good night."

Sherlock hung up and John found himself setting the phone down with a stupid smile on his face.

There was one other conclusion he had drawn in his first year at Newberry. He was absolutely in love with his best friend, Sherlock Holmes.


	9. End of the Year

John raised his hand, staring somewhat nervously at the rich mahogany oak door. He knocked on the door, looking at the shiny golden plaque with dread rolling through his stomach.

His counselor had always been somewhat… unnerving. John supposed that he was a good counselors, but something about him was just off. In the three meetings he's had with him over the year, he'd always walked out of the office with a slight shiver and the need to shake off the whole conversation.

"Come in," came the response from inside the office.

John pushed the handle and saw him sitting in his chair, behind a glass desk.

"Good afternoon John." He said, and smiled, all teeth.

John shifted uncomfortably and tried to muster a polite greeting.

"Good afternoon Mr. Brooke," John said.

He nodded towards the seat in front of him. "Have a seat."

John made his way over and sat down, trying to not look at his counselor directly. His coal black eyes always made John feel like he was being stripped down to his skeleton.

It made his skin crawl.

He looked at the folder resting on Mr. Brooke's desk and John suddenly had a sinking feeling why he was here.

"So, school ends next week." Mr. Brooke started, opening the folder and laying out several sheets of paper. "These are your grades from this year."

John nodded, his stomach rolling.

"In the beginning, when we first talked about your future, you said that you wanted to become a doctor and go to Cambridge? You had so much potential. The professor who interviewed you said that you seemed to be one of the most brilliant students she's ever talked with."

He nodded again.

Mr. Brooke's pleasant demeanor shifted. His snake-eyes narrowed and he picked up the printed transcript from this semester. John flinched.

John knew that his grades had been sinking over the year, going from a perfect 5.0 GPA to a 3. He also knew that his mom didn't want to pressure him and never bothered him about it, assuming that he was stressed in a competitive environment like Newberry. The more he thought about it, the more guilty he felt. Truth is, he'd just been so busy with Sherlock that he didn't feel the motivation to work so hard in his classes anymore. John suspected that the only reason he still had a 3.0 was because he had a genius of a roommate.

John didn't let himself ponder too much on how his life had started revolving around Sherlock Holmes.

John coughed and shuffled. "Yes."

"Then why have you gotten B's and some C's in almost all your classes?" his counselor asked sharply.

"I-" John tried starting, not knowing what to say.

"You can't get into any good school with those kind of grades. Much less Cambridge. Not only have your academics been severely lacking, you've failed to participate in any extracurricular besides rugby."

John could only nod, his face starting to burn.

Mr. Brooke folded his hands and focused the full intensity of his stare at John. "This is the high school in Britain, Mr. Watson. We have high standards here, and while I cannot legally punish you for your performance this year, I am warning you that if this continues to happen, your future at Newberry will be very bleak."

John swallowed, a mild shiver going down his spine.

"Do you understand?" Mr. Brooks asked slowly, looking at John as if he were the most devolved, uncivilized person on earth.

"Yes, Mr. Brooke. I'll try harder from now on."

He then gave a sharp flick of his hand, dismissing John.

John stood up and walked out of the room, once again feeling that shiver. He knew Mr. Brooke was right, he needed to start focusing on his school life.

If only Sherlock didn't exist.

John knew it was an impossible task, staying away from Sherlock Holmes. Even if they didn't share a room, Sherlock was a magnet, and John was hopelessly pulled to him. Falling in love with his mad roommate who has the emotional capacity of a two year old with the knowledge of two encyclopedias should've been insane. But it doesn't feel strange. That's the worst part. It felt so natural, and John was terrified that one day he'd just slip up and lean in to kiss Sherlock, effectively ruining the connection they had. Their friendship wasn't perfect, far from it, and John knows clearly just what makes it so messed up, but he wouldn't change it.

He was still pacing outside their dorm room and dreading the talk with Sherlock when the door flew open. Sherlock rushed out, grey eyes glittering and curls mussed in the most adorable way. John's breath caught.

"Come on John." Sherlock grinned. He grabbed a black coat and threw it on John before he could get a chance to breathe again.

"Criminals to catch!" Sherlock seemed to bounce around like an excited puppy, until John finally gave in and followed him down the hall.

* * *

It was the last rugby match of the year. John when he first signed up in spring the narrowed eyes and disapproving look from Sherlock. Sherlock thought of it as an uncivilized 'sport' that consisted of a bunch of sweaty boys with no IQ points pummeling each other for no reason.

Time after time John asked Sherlock to come watch, as he was his best friend, but John was still shocked when Sherlock finally consented to watch at this match.

When John went to lunch that day, he didn't see Sherlock. Assuming he was in the library or laboratory again, John went and sat next to his other friends.

"Hey," he said to his group of friends, sliding to sit next to Greg. It consisted of Irene, Greg, Mike and Molly. They were great friends, but none came close to Sherlock.

Sherlock half the time would sit at this table, and the other half would go to do research or something alike. Sometimes he dragged John along.

Greg and Mike were in rugby as well, so he said that Sherlock would finally be coming to this match.

Irene, as expected, arched her eyebrow and a slow smirk made its way onto her face. "Ah, your boyfriend finally coming to watch you shirtless in tiny shorts wrestle around with other guys?"

John blushed and made a defensive sound. He could see everyone else at the table share a look. "For the last time, he's not my boyfriend."

Irene snorted, leaning forward. "Come on, you guys practically spend every waking second together." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. "And maybe some non-waking seconds."

He rolled his eyes, looking to Greg for support. He only saw Greg trying to hide a grin.

"Does everyone at this table think I'm dating Sherlock Holmes?" He asked loudly, somewhat exasperated.

"Yes," everyone said in unison.

John sighed and poked at his food, keeping a humorous smile on his face. Oh what he wouldn't do for it all to be true.

* * *

They won the rugby game, and John was still panting and high on adrenaline when he spotted Sherlock. He jogged over to him, beaming. For a moment, John thought about what an odd sight they must've made, he was dripping with sweat and in a dirtied uniform, while Sherlock wore that button up shirt, crisp and proper.

"Congratulations John on your game. Though of course I still think it's a foolish game with—"

"Oi," John interrupted, grinning. "Give me a hug you git."

Sherlock blinked and looked at the dirt and grass staining John's uniform.

"Maybe later."

John grinned wider, bear-tackling Sherlock into a hug anyways. Sherlock stiffened for a moment, and then seemed to relax slightly. He awkwardly patted John's back. They rarely hugged. Sherlock wasn't much for displays of affections.

They stayed embracing each other, just a moment longer than maybe they should've.


	10. Hesitation

On the last day of school, John was ecstatic. After he gave a quick hug to all his friends, he made his way over to Sherlock.

"Have a great summer John," Sherlock said quietly.

John smiled. "You too. France will be beautiful. Remember to take lots of photos of the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre."

Sherlock, as expected, rolled his eyes. "There are more landmarks in France then just the Eiffel Tower and Louvre in Paris.

"And I bet you know all of them."

He shrugged. "Probably."

A laugh bubbled from John's chest, and he momentarily stopped thinking about how he wouldn't be seeing Sherlock for two months.

"So, when are you leaving?" he asked.

"Two days from now."

"And when are you coming back?"

"A week before school starts again."

"Oh." That was all John could say.

After sharing a brief hug, they parted ways. John watched Sherlock walk into a sleek black car.

John sat down on a bench in the garden, waiting for his mom to come and pick him up. Idly, John watched a squirrel skitter across the grass.

He felt strangely disoriented.

John thought he could still feel the lingering warmth from their hug, and suddenly he felt an overwhelming urge to chase after that black car. He wouldn't be seeing Sherlock for two months and John didn't want to let go of him for even a second.

Sitting here, on this lone park bench, the intensity of what he felt for Sherlock reached out and touched his every nerve. It was bewildering and almost painful, how much he wished Sherlock was here.

"John," a voice interrupted his thoughts. "What are you still doing here?"

John looked up and saw Irene. He forced down his tidal wave of emotions and smiled at her. "I'm waiting for my mom to get here."

"Same," she replied.

There was a silence, and John could feel Irene's gaze on him. Studying him.

"What's wrong?" She asked, sighing and sliding onto the bench next to him.

John blinked and looked at her, feigning innocence.

"Oh don't give me that look," she said exasperatedly. "It's about Sherlock isn't it?"

John crossed his legs and looked away.

She sighed again. "Boys. So oblivious. It's so obvious that you love him. I've seen the way you look at him. You light up when he's around, in a way that you never do when you're around Greg, Molly, or me. And every time you—"

John interrupted, "no, You guys are my friends."

"Well obviously. But you don't care about us like that. You don't know what you look like when you see Sherlock." She laughed, shaking her head. "It's blindingly obvious how much you like him."

"I-" John didn't know what to say. He didn't even see a point in denying it anymore.

"I don't know what to do," John finally said. "Sherlock doesn't, he doesn't do that. And I just-it just hurts. Everything. You know. There's this longing in my heart and it hurts so much, and I want to run straight to him and never let him go, but I also want to just take off in the other direction as fast as I can." John laughed, hollow and mirthless. "Because I know every second with him I fall further, and one day I'll be ripped apart when he finally leaves." His voice cracked at the end.

"Hey," she said gently but firmly, "don't think like that. I might not know how Sherlock thinks, hell, no who does. He's a mystery. But I know that he cares a lot for you."

John snorted. "Yeah right."

Irene fixed him with stern stare. "I am the expert on relationships and love and sex. Trust me."

John sighed in response but didn't say anything else.

"You guys have three years to work this out. And I am confident that you will."

"He doesn't think of me in that way, and even if he did, I won't jeopardize our friendship for some half-lived romance that'll probably end with one of us hating each other," John said, looking down at the grass.

"Not if you don't let it."

Silence followed.

A few minutes later, his mom's car appeared. He stood up and wished Irene a great summer.

He had walked away when Irene stood up and shook her head, her lips pursued. "Boys."

* * *

After he got home, John grabbed a book and sat down on his bed.

Two seconds after opening it, he sighed and slammed it closed.

Then he lied down and stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the air conditioning. He proceeded to not think about Sherlock for the next two hours.

* * *

Surprisingly, summer didn't pass as agonizingly slowly as John feared it would. The seconds that he didn't spend pondering Sherlock were spent on playing on a rugby team in a nearby park, and rereading textbooks.

When he told his mom about his grades, she didn't look angry or upset, just mildly disappointed. And that was a punch in the gut. With a pat on the back and her telling him that it wasn't his fault, John felt like the worst person ever. His mom didn't know that he was pretty much disregarding anything and everything of importance to go running off with Sherlock to catch a burglar on the Thames or what ever other case that John could inevitably follow Sherlock.

Trying to not fall in the pit of self-pity/hatred was the main reasons he started spending most of his days playing rugby, a sport he never really seriously considered until this year.

The strangest thing was, during the summer, John's life almost went back to normal. Of course he still thought about his mad roommate far more than what's healthy, but John felt that maybe things were sliding back to what they were before Sherlock.

He started going back to his original passion of becoming a doctor, studying the books that he meant to read during the school year. Now, without Sherlock by his side, John begun to find it impossible and ridiculous that he could have ever abandoned his studies completely.

But then there were the dreams, dreams that completely went against every single ordinary moment he had in the life he thought he was finally getting back. The dreams were just recollections of wild chases through London, of those feelings he wanted to recapture so badly again. The truth was, there was a strange freedom he felt with Sherlock, and knowing that feeling made everything he did now seem so utterly dull and pointless.

It was these thoughts that kept him up at night. John was spiraling down a staircase of self-destruction every moment with Sherlock and he knew it. But John also knew he would give anything just for one more second with him.

To say he was unsure heading back on the first day of school at Newberry was quite the understatement.


	11. Reputation

John wouldn't call Newberry a typical high school, but it still had its stereotypical social groups. The nerds. The hipsters. The jocks. The social queens.

One of the things that made Newberry remarkable and different from most high schools was that everyone in the school had at least one form of artistic talent, some physical strength and high intellectual/academic abilities.

However, that didn't stop it from having its social boundaries and shortcomings. It was the way a student chose to act that placed them in social groups.

Naturally, in any school, the artistic and intellectual people were considered inferior in the eyes of the popular ones. When John learned this, he was both disappointed that Newberry was not any different yet was also completely unsurprised.

High school was high school no matter how high the IQs.

John toed the popularity line. When he played rugby, he was seen as a jock. When he chose to stay in the library with Sherlock and help him look for books on mold, he was a nerd. John was well-liked, he knew that. He had friends and a group, but he would never consider himself popular.

Sherlock had a different reputation.

His distaste for most social interactions except those with his closest friends made him special, important. He was both the 'freak', a term that made John's stomach turn, and the 'genius'. Half the school hated him, the other half begrudgingly admired him.

But everyone knew of him.

So it wasn't exactly a surprise what happened on John's first day back.

* * *

 _Growth spurts_ , John thought half-dazed as he stared wide eyed at his best friend. Or rather, at his shirt.

Sherlock wasn't short the last time John saw him, far from it. But he also wasn't impossibly lean and tall either.

The tip of John's ears flushed and tried not to stare. Sherlock was always slightly gangly, but moved with an incongruous grace that John was baffled by. It wasn't Sherlock's appearance that gave him such a domineering presence.

"Uh. The summer in France, changed you." John said nervously, blushing even more as he struggled to not stammer. Why was he acting so strange around his best friend? So what if Sherlock looked like a teenage male model now, he was still the same Sherlock.

His eyebrow arched and an amused smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

John's eyes traitorously ran over Sherlock's lean frame again. The button up shirts and black trousers he always insisted on wearing everyday suddenly fitted him like a glove. And the mop of wild curls seemed to suit him even more now. Cheekbones more pronounced, as if they weren't sharp enough already. He grew a head taller than John and those long legs became more obvious than ever. And those eyes. The intensity of his gaze was enough to make John think that Sherlock could hear every thought running through his mind.

John swallowed. Being in love with his best friend's brilliant mind already was bad enough. Sharing a room with Sherlock like this every single day would undoubtedly kill him.

* * *

John wasn't the only one who noticed.

Walking down the halls with his best friend, John could hear the whispers, and feel their stares boring into him and Sherlock. Eyes tracking their every move. John supposed that he might've been a bit paranoid, but he wasn't blind, or deaf.

John plopped down at their lunch table, getting away from all the muttering. Sherlock went to the library to find something on the _Amanita Ocreata_ mushroom. He mumbled something about poison and darted to the library. John was too busy inappropriately staring at his best friend to protest Sherlock skipping lunch again to do research.

He was picking at his cold lasagna when he realized that he could practically feel the eyes of his friends on him. John sighed and raised his head slowly.

They were, as expected, staring at him. Molly, Greg and Mike looked away and seemed slightly embarrassed and awkward. Irene kept the mischievous smile on her face.

"So, John. Your boyfriend is looking quite gorgeous." She winked.

John sighed, expecting it. Irene was never one for delicacy. Or subtlety. Or just general social cues.

Mike looked somewhat scandalized, Molly blushed and Greg tried to muffle a snicker.

Irene continued, not seeing, or just not bothered by John's death glare. "I mean, Sherlock was pretty already, with those black curls and razor sharp cheekbones."

John shifted uncomfortably. He would've been blind to not notice his best friend's… other traits.

Irene's smile grew, teeth flashing, and her eyes teasing.

When he first met her, it shocked John that Irene was so well acquainted with sex and whatnot.

It only took about a week before he got used to it.

In fact, he wouldn't be surprised now if she had a whip.

"But Sherlock, he certainly matured." Irene said the last word slowly, leaving not much to the imagination as what she was referring to.

John forced his blush down. He'd heard too much giggling in the halls and seen enough pointed glances to be shy about this now.

His attention went to Molly, and he felt bad for thinking this afterwards, but she looked liked someone set her seat on fire. Her face was bright red and she was squirming a lot.

It was no secret that she had a huge crush on Sherlock, it was something that everyone knew, but never mentioned.

John wished he couldn't relate.

* * *

The worst part wasn't the relentless gossip about Sherlock, or the glances every time they walked through the hallways. He could stand that. If they wanted to stare, fine.

What really set John's teeth on edge was the disgusting reaction from the people who thought of themselves as the greatest gift to ever grace the earth.

Unfortunately, John and Sherlock were both well acquainted with them, though for very different reasons.

After rugby practice, John was tired, sweaty and not in the mood for any shit. So when he saw Anderson and Dimmock making their way over to him, it was all John could to not just sock the grins off their faces.

John took a deep breath, unclenched his fists, and wondered for the hundredth time how they got into Newberry.

"Our little fairy's all grown up, aww," Anderson cooed.

John rolled his eyes, fairy, of course, how creative. They called Sherlock every degrading name their feeble minds could come up with.

Dimmock's grin grew. "We always wondered how the freak got you to be friends with him. But, well now we see." His eyes glinted. "That faggot can finally put that smartass mouth of his to good use."

 _That's it_ , John thought. He swung his arm back and the sound of his fist connecting with the bastard's nose was the most satisfying thing he'd heard all day.


	12. A Growing Problem

The first time John punched someone in the face for Sherlock because he called Sherlock a faggot. He was given two detentions and a warning.

The second time John punched someone in the face for Sherlock was several months later, and perhaps John should've thought through punching the son of the headmaster and the captain of the wrestling team because he came back to the dorm nursing a swollen eye and was promised a trip to the headmaster's office where he would be given more detentions and a phone call to his mom.

"You're an idiot John," Sherlock said, looking at his bruised face with a mixture of fondness and irritation.

"Yes, well, I was defending your virtue," John half-heartedly joked. Anger lingered from what Sebastian said. Punching him was incredibly satisfying, but not enough.

That didn't slip Sherlock's attention and his expression grew more exasperated.

"I don't care what those idiots think of me." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

John clenched his teeth. "But I do."

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at John thoughtfully. "Yes, I wonder why."

John's breathing stopped for a second, and then forced himself to continue as if nothing was wrong. "Because you're my friend."

Sherlock hummed, and resumed his pacing.

John could see he was off in his mind palace, so he just grabbed a book and flopped back onto his bed. He got through the first two pages of the book and then realized that he had no idea what he just read. He repeated this several times until he gave up. He was just so aware of Sherlock's presence. It was almost as if he could feel the waves of body heat coming off of Sherlock from here.

John stared unseeingly at the ceiling, counting Sherlock's steps.

It had gotten easier since the beginning of the year, it really had. Now, it wasn't as frequent that he was suddenly struck by how utterly radiant and beautiful Sherlock was while he was in the midst of speaking. It left John trying to restart his heart.

Still, it was impossible to not notice.

"John," Sherlock called suddenly.

He blinked.

"Saturday morning, we need to go to a hardware shop near Brixton. The robber was seen inside."

John's heart warmed at the 'we'.

He shook his head. "Can't, I haven't an appointment with my counselor Saturday morning."

Sherlock frowned. "You can't put it off?"

John shook his head again. "I've delayed it two weeks already."

Sherlock pouted and glared at John as if he were the one deciding he couldn't come.

Seeing that Sherlock was about to do something stupid like phone his counselor saying John had small pox, John sat up and tried to distract him up by asking about the case.

Sherlock brightened instantly.

John was content to lie there for hours, listening to the comforting drone of Sherlock's voice.

* * *

"You need to stop spending time with Sherlock Holmes," Mr. Brooke said.

John stared at him for a full second. "No. And I believe that's none of your business."

"I'm not the bad guy here. Mr. Holmes is poisoning you."

"You have no right to tell me who or who not to be friends with."

"Can't you see? You're spending all of your time with him and you're failing because of that," Mr. Brooke said, throwing up his hands.

"No," John repeated, crossing his arms. "How do you even know these things?"

"You two are roommates, and I have eyes and ears around the school."

John sat up straighter. "It doesn't matter. I'm not going to stop being friends with Sherlock and nothing you can say will change that."

Mr. Brooke looked at John for a moment before waving his hand towards the door. "Then you may go. But I'm warning you, keep going down this path and you'll be lucky if any university accepts you, much less Cambridge, Mr. Watson."

John stood up stiffly, clenching his teeth, and exited the room.

* * *

Later, John laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Without Sherlock pacing in the room, rambling to him about a case, the dorm room was far too quiet.

Which meant John did a lot of thinking. Mr. Brooke's words stayed in his head.

The worst part was that John couldn't even be angry, no matter how hard he tried. He knew Mr. Brooke was right.

John wished that his thoughts would shut up.


	13. Sixteen

Sherlock's 16th birthday was in a week, and John was racking his brain trying to think of a gift. Reserving the school's main lounge and throwing a small party with some friends was out of the question, as Sherlock would cringe if John mentioned some sort of birthday celebration.

" _There'd be people." Sherlock said, looking dismayed at the mere thought, "Of course I don't want that."_

 _"But they're your friends," John said._

 _Sherlock rolled his eyes, dropping the topic._

John stared at his computer screen, willing it to come up with something for him. He considered getting Sherlock a microscope, but the one he knew Sherlock had his heart set on was far too expensive.

John thought about buying crime history novels or something along those lines, but Sherlock's collection of books about criminology might actually surpass his own bookshelves of medical textbooks at home. John couldn't go one minute without seeing some book or paper about crime lying around their dorm room, and that's not including the giant bookshelf that's completely packed with Sherlock's books. It would take weeks or possibly months for John to find a book Sherlock didn't already have.

He looked up and stared at the skull sitting on Sherlock's desk.

John had an idea. Sherlock had a morbid sense of humor, he would appreciate crime memorabilia that an especially clever serial killer may have owned or used.

An hour later, he slammed his laptop shut and groaned.

Apparently you can't buy _everything_ on Ebay.

* * *

John had a half-hatched plan for Sherlock's present, but he had no idea how he was going to be able to carry it out. He'd briefly considered calling Mycroft; he'd heard a lot about Sherlock's incredibly influential brother fresh out of Uni while Sherlock grumbled about his "fat head" and how he was always butting into his business. He didn't even have Mycroft's number, and even if he did, Sherlock would undoubtedly go into a week long sulk and wouldn't enjoy his present at all.

Lunch was an opportunity for him to unload his problems on his friends. While they weren't as close to Sherlock as they were to John, they could offer some insight. Unfortunately, Sherlock decided that he would work on his experiment in the chem lab in the evening instead of during lunch like he usually did.

John kept twitching and internally groaning throughout the lunch, he could never keep secrets from Sherlock. It would take a miracle to fool his best friend.

As soon as Sherlock left for the bathroom, John leaned in conspiratorially towards his friends.

"Everyone, come up to our dorm, 221, at 5 pm. Sherlock should be gone by then."

Confusion flitted across their faces. "What's up?" Molly asked.

"Sherlock's birthday is in a week. I'm trying to surprise him, and I have an idea but I need your guys' input. I've hit a bit of a roadblock."

They agreed, and when Sherlock came back a minute later, they were all quietly picking away at their lunch. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he regarded John, and he slowly looked at his friends before sitting down. John crossed every bone in his body and prayed that Sherlock wouldn't guess what he was thinking.

* * *

"The Black Museum," John started explaining what he wanted to do for Sherlock.

Molly and Mike looked really confused, but Irene and Greg knew what he was referring to and their eyes lit up. "That'd be perfect for Sherlock," she said.

John nodded, continuing, "It's a huge collection of criminal memorabilia from the most famous cases. The problem is that it's in New Scotland Yard and not open to visitors. There's are police officers assigned there. I'm not even sure how many exhibits there are, but from what I read there'd more than enough to fascinate Sherlock."

"So," John folded his hands. "Can you guys think of anything I can do? I thought about going to the station and just asking the officers if we could go inside. But I don't think that'll work."

"But John, we aren't allowed to leave campus until next year," Molly chimed in.

"That's not a problem, Sherlock's found a easy way to sneak out," John replied.

Molly blinked, then nodded. "Right, of course he has."

The room was quiet for a moment, everyone thinking.

"Actually," Greg started, "I just remembered. I have an uncle works at Scotland Yard. He's a Detective Inspector there."

"That's great!" John beamed. "Can you call him and ask if he would be able to do us a favor? Tell him it's a friend's birthday and that he's really interested in the history of crime."

John hoped that he'd be able to make Sherlock's 16th birthday as memorable as possible, after all, he did love Sherlock.


	14. Catalina Blue

John was nervous. He'd been at _Angelo's_ for ten minutes now, wringing his hands and checking his phone every 20 seconds.

He had planned everything to the last second.

Right before he left, he hastily stuck a note on their door telling Sherlock to meet him here.

 _Sherlock Holmes,_

 _At 7:00_

 _Come to where all our adventures end._

John didn't have a doubt that Sherlock would know he was referring to _Angelo's_ , but it was 7:10 and he still wasn't here. John was getting worried.

A familiar figure walked up to the glass door, and John stopped his pacing.

Sherlock stepped in, a gust of warmth greeting him. His cheeks were pink from the brutal wind and inky curls messy. John inhaled sharply and stepped forward hesitantly.

"A bit too dramatic?" Sherlock asked, looking down at his new coat.

John looked at the propped up collar framing Sherlock's face and the flare of the Belstaff coat and smiled, his heart stuttering. Was it possible for Sherlock to get more beautiful?

"It's perfect on you," John replied.

"Thanks." Sherlock looked away. John couldn't tell if his cheeks were still pink from the cold or from the compliment.

"It's a birthday present from my father, I suppose he felt guilty for not being able to pick me up on the weekends." Sherlock's gaze fell on John. "Though I prefer it."

John did too. There were restrictions on what they could do on the weekdays, but on the weekends the possibilities were endless. It wasn't just working on the latest case Sherlock found fascinating; their shared love for London led to ridiculous, amazing adventures across the city.

John cleared his throat. "Well, this is my birthday present to you."

Sherlock's was quiet for a few moments as he stared at John, and John knew Sherlock was trying to read him.

"Of course I deduced you were planning a surprise. "

John nodded, expecting this.

"Unfortunately I haven't figured out what it is," Sherlock continued.

John grinned. "Good."

"I don't like surprises." Sherlock frowned.

"You'll like this one." John sat down in the booth and gestured for Sherlock to do the same. "So here's the plan. We're going to have coffee here so that I don't accidentally fall asleep on you tonight, and then we're going to eat something, No I don't care that you're not hungry, it's been a day since you ate anything substantial. Afterwards," John waved his arms dramatically, "the best birthday present in the history of birthday presents."

* * *

John watched Sherlock drink his cappuccino and suddenly a question was burning on his mind.

"What are your parents like?"

Sherlock looked slightly surprised.

"You don't have to answer," John said quickly. "I was just wondering, since never really talk about them."

"Well, my mother was something of a genius mathematician," Sherlock started.

John felt that the _was_ meant something.

"No, nothing quite so tragic," Sherlock admonished, and John suspected that he really could read minds. "She's alive and perfectly well."

"When she married my father and had Mycroft and I, she gave up on her studies so he could raise us. If she hadn't stopped, I'm sure he could've won the Nobel prize for math."

John wasn't really surprised.

"My father is an English teacher at a high school, so he's busy most of the time."

"And they're both dreadfully normal. I can't stand staying at home for more than a couple days." Sherlock finished.

John's eyebrows rose. "Really?"

Sherlock smiled wryly. "You wouldn't think so, looking at me."

"No, no' John shook his head, "well, you are quite extraordinary."

John could see the smile Sherlock was trying to hide in his cappuccino.

* * *

John took a bite of his lasagna and let out a moan, it was heavenly, the mozzarella practically melted on his tongue. He looked up and saw Sherlock twirling strands of linguini onto his fork and staring at John with amusement.

"Shut up," John said, blushing, "it's amazing."

Sherlock nodded. "You chose a good place."

"I wasn't sure if you liked Italian," John admitted, "I was a bit worried."

"It's my favorite."

John mentally added that to the list of things Sherlock likes and dislikes, and realized that the lists only consisted of three things. There was so much John didn't know about his best friend.

"What's your favorite color?"

Sherlock blinked. "Why?"

"I want to get to know you better, you've got every detail of me memorized."

Sherlock snorted, "Please, you know me better than anyone else on this planet."

John would be lying if he said that didn't cause a little burst of warmth in his chest, but he insisted, "tell me anyways."

"Catalina Blue."

"Like the color of your eyes," John said without thinking.

Sherlock looked surprised, and John instantly blushed when he realized what he said.

"Not, not that I've noticed what color your eyes are." John cringed, he should really stop talking now.

"It's fine," Sherlock smiled. "I've been told it's my most striking feature."

"By who?" John asked.

Sherlock's grin grew. "You."


	15. The Black Museum

They decided to walk to New Scotland Yard instead of taking the tube. The wind was crisp and John moved closer to Sherlock as they were walking. Whenever their hands bumped together, John's face warmed slightly.

When John and Sherlock made it to the entrance, a tall uniformed man was waiting.

"You two must be Sherlock and John, Greg's friends. I'm Detective Inspector William Lestrade," he said, extending his hand.

John shook his hand. "Nice to meet you. Thank you so much for letting us go in. I know it's not really allowed."

Sherlock looked at him and cocked his head, and John could see that Sherlock was trying to read the situation. Going by the light in his eyes, he was starting to figure out what John's present is. John bit back a smile.

"Well, Greg's told me a lot about you two." He turned towards Sherlock. "You're the genius right?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I guess."

The detective inspector smiled. "If what Greg has said about your deductions are true, Sherlock, I think we'd love to have you working here one day."

Sherlock and John fought back a smile. They had no idea Sherlock was the one behind the 'anonymous' tips.

He lead them down a hall and there was an oak door at the end of it. A plaque marking it the Scotland Yard museum.

"Alright," Detective Inspector Lestrade coughed, "I'll let you boys be. Shut the doors on your way out."

When John looked at Sherlock with a smile on his face, Sherlock's eyes were wide and he looked at John and then back to the door. "You," he breathed.

John's smile grew. "You're welcome."

"This is, the best present. I. " Sherlock seemed to be for once, without words. It was worth it, owing Greg a thousand favors to get them into this museum, just to see the astonished look on Sherlock's face.

"I'm glad you like it, it took me a while to figure out what present to get you," John admitted.

"I've been wanting to go here for ages," Sherlock said. "If you hadn't done this, I would of certainly managed to make my way into this museum in more unsavory methods."

John chuckled, "I figured. I didn't want you to get arrested."

Sherlock smiled at John for a moment, and John was acutely aware how close they were and the warmth of Sherlock's hand on his arm. Whatever it was, Sherlock seemed to snap out of it. "Let's go in!" Sherlock bounced, pulling John through the doors.

It was larger than John has expected, thought he didn't quite know what to expect. He sort of just imagined a storage room with old guns and skulls. Instead, it was an actual museum. Dimly lit and oddly tasteful in its simple décor. The exhibits were in glass cases on wooden stands and plaques with its background history.

It was perfect for Sherlock, who was currently pressing his face up against the glass and staring at an old letter. .

When John walked up to Sherlock, he turned around and looked at John excitedly. "This is the actual letter," Sherlock pointed to the faded, scrawled writing. The letter that Jack the Ripper allegedly wrote."

Sherlock beckoned for John to come closer, and John squinted, trying to read the impossible handwriting. "What's most interesting," Sherlock continued, "is that at the time there were hundreds of letters sent to the police and newspapers with people claiming they were Jack the Ripper, but this 'From Hell' letter came with a macabre souvenir for the police that convinced them it wasn't a hoax, half of a kidney."

John watched as Sherlock came alive under the florescent lights and glass exhibits, ironic as it was. Sherlock jumped from one case to the next, making John's head spin as he tried to process all these crimes.

Sherlock stopped in front of an black, inconspicuous looking umbrella that had a lethal blade sticking out from its bottom. Sherlock stared for a moment and then laughed, turning to John and his eyes shining with amusement. John was confused and cocked his head, the _I-have-no-idea-what-you're-on-about-this-time_ look in his eyes.

"My brother, Mycroft," Sherlock started to explain once his fits of laughter had calmed enough. "That pompous arsehole started having a love affair with black umbrellas five years ago, and I've been making fun of him ever since. He would love this."

He figured that Sherlock was joking. John laughed along, mainly so that he could see Sherlock grin again. 

* * *

The detective inspector was nowhere in sight when John and Sherlock finally stepped out of the museum. John checked his phone and saw that it was nearly midnight.

"We spent three and a half hours in there," John said, but not finding himself to be tired at all.

He didn't hear a response from Sherlock, and John turned around, expecting Sherlock to be tapping away on his phone, already distracted. Instead he found Sherlock barely a foot away from him, staring at John intensely.

John swallowed, looking up and meeting Sherlock's molten green eyes with something akin to dread and anticipation. John's lips parted slightly and he was chanting in his head for Sherlock to do something, anything to break the electric silence filling the air around them.

Sherlock's expression faltered after a moment and he blinked, and whatever it was, whatever moment they were in, ended.

"Thank you, for all this," Sherlock said quietly, and John saw something desperately unspoken in his eyes, but John was far too scared, far too uncertain of everything, so he let it go with a tentative smile and a nod.


	16. Reflections

Their walk back to Newberry was quiet, and John found himself discreetly peeking at Sherlock every other minute. John was sure that Sherlock noticed this, and half expected Sherlock to snap at him, but neither John or Sherlock broke the heavy curtain of silence between them.

This isn't what I wanted, John thought. He expected Sherlock to be exhilarated after the museum, since he seemed to love it so much. John couldn't quite grasp the enormity of the aborted moment between them at the museum mere minutes ago, but he was certain that something had shifted. Something monumental.

John's hand was practically twitching with the urge to grab Sherlock's hand, or at least to brush against his fingers, to establish any sort of contact. It was unbearable, the distance between them two.

John couldn't have been more relieved when they finally got back to their dorm. The door shut with a soft click, and John felt all the energy of the night drain out of him. He groggily finished his night routine, and climbed into his bed. Distantly, he was aware that Sherlock was still standing there, looking out the window. John was too tired to care, and he soon drifted off into sleep.

* * *

When John woke up the next morning, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. That was pretty normal, since it was a Sunday. Sherlock was probably in the lab. John got up and headed for the coffee machine.

There was a note stuck to it. Sherlock's spidery handwriting read:

 _Meet me in room 309._

John sighed, he just wanted to stay in and catch up on some homework. Sherlock's cases had been driving him around the bend; he hardly had any downtime now. John got dressed in a hurry, and just as he was about to leave, his phone rang.

He looked down and saw a blocked number. John's curiosity grew.

"Hello?" he said.

"Is this John Watson?"

"Yes," John replied hesitantly. The voice over the phone was calculated and sharp.

"What are your intentions with Sherlock Holmes?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Who is this?"

"His brother."

"Oh!" John gasped, "That makes sense. Sherlock's told me a lot about you."

"All good things, I'm sure," Mycroft said dryly.

"Right." _Pompous, fat aresehole_. "So why are you calling me?" John asked.

"I want to know about your relationship with Sherlock."

"I don't believe that's any of your business," John said.

"I think it is. Sherlock's always been… unsociable. Now all he talks about is you," Mycroft replied calmly. "I want to know why that is."

John's face heated up slightly. "I'm his friend and roommate."

There was a pause. "To put it indelicately, are you sleeping with my brother?"

"W-what? No, of course not," John stuttered, eyes widening. John's tried his best to put all thoughts of Sherlock in that way out of his mind. It helps him function.

"Mm." Mycroft didn't seem convinced.

"I'm not!" John protested.

Mycroft didn't reply for a moment. He finally said, "this won't be the last time you hear from me John, I'll be in touch," and hung up abruptly.

That was strange, John thought. He stared at his phone for a while, thinking about what just happened. After a minute, John shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, and left the dorm to find Sherlock.

* * *

John was admittedly still distracted when he walked into room 309, so he didn't immediately notice that there was something a bit off about Sherlock,

Sherlock wasn't pacing or working on the computer; he was simply sitting in a chair, looking at John with such intensity that he was almost afraid to move.

John cleared his throat. "So, you wanted me here?"

"I was going to ask you to help me with an experiment."

"What is it?"

Sherlock paused and studied John for a moment longer. "Something's on your mind," he said.

John was startled. "What are you talking about?" Sherlock couldn't have possibly deduced the phone call.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Mycroft," he hissed. "That interfering ass."

Well, John thought drily, no point in trying to keep anything from this genius. "Yes, he called me."

Sherlock jumped up from where he was sitting and started pacing frantically. "Stupid…. he must've told John… I… go and ruined it all.." John caught fragments of Sherlock's rapid mumbling.

"Sherlock," John said coaxingly. Sherlock didn't appear to have heard him, and continued with his mad pacing.

"Sherlock," John repeated, more firmly this time. "It's fine."

Sherlock finally looked at John and his eyes were wide with fear. "How is it fine?" Sherlock hissed. John was reminded of a feral dog snapping when people got too close. "You've made it abundantly clear that you're not gay."

John was once again shocked into silence. It took him a moment to process that, all the while Sherlock was still pacing and rattling curses about Mycroft. "Wait," John said slowly. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Sherlock stopped instantly, and he stared at John. Whatever he must've seen in John's expression made him relax again. "Never mind then," Sherlock dismissed with a flap of his hand.

John blinked. A moment ago Sherlock seemed on the verge of a mini-melt down, and now he was perfectly fine. "What?"

"Never mind. Forget everything I just said, Sherlock said.

"O-okay then," John said hesitantly. "Do you still need my help with that experiment?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I figured it out."

"Alright."

When John got back to their dorm, he leaned against the door and groaned. "What the hell just happened?"


	17. A Small Change

Winter break was boring without Sherlock.

Everything was.

John spent most of the time avoiding relatives and wondering what Sherlock was up to. Sure they texted a lot, but it wasn't quite like the real thing. He looked forward to the little, inane texts that Sherlock would send him at all times of day.

 _I may have slightly burned our countertop John. –SH_

 _Did you know there are 246 different types of tobacco ash? –SH_

 _I'm using the mold on our white bread for an experiment. –SH_

Christmas came and all John could think about was Sherlock alone in their dorm. John didn't really know all the details about the estranged relationship Sherlock had with the rest of his family, since he would clamp up every time John asked. And considering that phone call John had with Mycroft, John couldn't really blame Sherlock for not wanting to speak wish him.

After Sherlock's freak-out a month ago, things had more or less gone back to normal. Sherlock still blabbered about cases to John, and John always helped him, even though it was often somewhat reluctantly. It had become harder for John to spend all his time with Sherlock when he wanted to grab him and kiss him every time Sherlock opened his mouth. Of course, not spending time with Sherlock wasn't an option either.

The rest of the holidays dragged on, and by the time New Years Eve came, John was longing to hear Sherlock's voice again. It was just before midnight, and John knew Sherlock was still up, he always was, so John was about to call him to talk about anything at all when he got a text message.

 _Happy New Year John! I miss you, xoxo. –Mary M._

John immediately felt guilty, he was so caught up in thoughts of Sherlock, he completely forgot about Mary. He'd asked her out a several weeks before break started, and she was sweet, and funny, and pretty, and… not Sherlock. They held hands and went to the movies, and when Mary giggled at his joke, he leaned in and kissed her, and all he could think about was how Sherlock's lips would feel against his.

Mary was perfect, but Sherlock was so much more. He drowned out everything.

John sighed, his thumb hovering over the call button. He knew he should call Mary and tease and flirt with her and tell her he missed her too, but it seemed infinitely.. easier to talk to Sherlock and listen to him ramble and talk about completely silly things with John until they both fell asleep on the phone. John imagined a fork in the road, and whatever decision he made right now would lead him on a path he couldn't back away from.

"Hi," John murmured into the phone.

"John," Sherlock greeted, sounding somewhat surprised but happy.

"Happy New Year," John said, a tinge of something sad in his voice.

"Useless tradition to celebrate every year, but nonetheless, happy new year to you too John," Sherlock said.

John smiled slightly. Typical.

There was silence for a moment, and John could almost imagine Sherlock lying on his bed miles away, with his phone by his ear.

"The dorm is so quiet without you," Sherlock said softly, and John shut his eyes tightly against a wave of emotion threatening to undo all the walls he'd placed up between Sherlock and him to make this bearable. John knew what Sherlock was trying to say. _I miss you John._

"I know," John said, not trusting his voice for say anything else. Two ridiculous, inadequate words for everything that was racing through him. _God Sherlock, I would do anything to be there with you right now._ He hated this, this impasse between he and Sherlock where everything felt like it was on the edge of tumbling into something new and terrifying, and the uncertainty of what it would mean for them.

John was wrong, completely and totally wrong. This wasn't easier. This was impossible.

* * *

On the first day back, John attempted to avoid Sherlock, a lost cause considering they almost had all their classes together and they shared a room. Nonetheless, John had somewhat succeeded in not making eye contact with him until History. Mr. Verdue looked extremely pale and was buried in a pile of tissues by his desk, and between sniffles he explained to the class that they'll be watching a documentary.

Sherlock and John shared a grin and they both made a beeline for the black chair that was in the back of the class. It was the most comfortable thing in the room, and when John plopped onto it first, Sherlock scowled and fell on top of John, pushing him. The lights were turned off and they were far back enough in the corner of the class that no one really noticed two sixteen year old boys wrestling over a chair.

"Oi," John laughed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's lanky waist and pulling him away. "Get off." John had a huge smile on his face, the initial awkwardness of seeing Sherlock fading with the ease of laughing and talking with his best friend.

After one final push, Sherlock fell back into his own chair, and he was looking at John with a murderous expression. His curls were messy and his face was scrunched up in a glare and John wanted to grab him and kiss him.

It was a documentary about the Medicis, and John couldn't care less. He was far too distracted by the length of Sherlock's arm pressed up against his and their knees knocking together. Sherlock was practically leaning against him, and John realized that he was still trying to push John off the chair.

It was a bit silly how flustered John got just by having Sherlock so close to him. He was grateful that the classroom was dark, it hid the dark blush on his cheeks.

John bumped against Sherlock, "hey, quit trying to push me off," John whispered.

John could feel Sherlock's eye roll, but he did stop leaning against John. He sighed in relief, Sherlock pressed up against him for an hour? Not a good idea.

Less than five minutes later, John felt Sherlock's hand nudge against him.

He ignored it.

Then, Sherlock nudged him again.

John huffed and knocked Sherlock's hand back slightly.

He didn't know how it even happened, but they were prodding each other repeatedly and then their fingers were tangling and then their pinkies hooked together. And John's heart was pounding so loudly he thought the whole class could hear it, and it was absolutely ridiculous but Sherlock was so close to him and his hand was large and warm.

And then. They were holding hands and Sherlock was resting against him and this is in the middle of a renaissance documentary and John would laugh at how silly this all was if it weren't for the maddening pressure on his chest and the feeling of _thisiseverythingieverwanted._

They stayed like that for the rest of the period, fingers intertwined.


	18. Avoiding the Inevitable

It had become a cycle. Something would happen between Sherlock and John, John would think everything was changing, would panic, and then nothing would happen.

And each time, the pressure on John's chest would only grow.

John was in the garden, crouched by a statue. Ironically, one of cupid and his stupid bow and arrow. He was frustrated and sad and…

Ever since that night at the Black Museum, there had been little incidents, little clues that filled John with hope that maybe Sherlock felt the same way. Looks and longing gazes that went on for longer than what was appropriate, and then the little bumps of their hands that made Sherlock jump like he was electrocuted.

And then, holding hands. Yes, John's hand got sweaty and slightly cramped but he wasn't going to let go until he had to. He could hear his heart pounding wildly the entire hour.

The bell rang and the documentary ended and it was like a mini earthquake happened, whatever they had, whatever strange force that had led them to holding hands disappeared as soon as the lights went back on. John jumped away from Sherlock, gathered his bag and bolted out of the room, face bright red and feeling as though the ground would fall beneath his feet.

John had lunch next, and he just ran to the most isolated place he could find to try and gather his thoughts. The garden seemed like a safe bet.

And now, there he was, leaning against a statue and feeling as if his world had come crashing down. Again. Always because of Sherlock.

John groaned, burying his face in his hands. Why was he so afraid? Logically he knew that even if Sherlock rejected him in that way, they would remain friends. Their bond went deeper than a superficial attraction, but he couldn't bear to imagine the look of disgust on Sherlock's face if he told him the truth.

And worse yet. John thought morbidly, what if he did feel the same way? What if they went out, and it was perfect and John had no doubt that they would be compatible in that way, in every way, but what if then.. it didn't work.

What if they just stopped talking?

John couldn't bear losing Sherlock like that. He knew that their friendship would be destroyed if they got together and it just didn't work out. And John knew it would be painful. Infinitely more painful than just not being able to touch Sherlock, not being able to tell him how much he truly cared.

That's what held him back, and even if Sherlock felt the same way, he was just too valuable to be risked.

John didn't know how long he sat there for, but he did know that he was panicking. When someone slipped down next to him quietly, John wasn't surprised.

"Hey Sherlock," John mumbled, head buried between his knees. He didn't want Sherlock to see him like this, but then again, it was too late anyways. He could never keep anything from Sherlock, and he knew that it wouldn't take long for Sherlock to find him.

Sherlock scooted closer to him, their bodies almost bumping together. John sighed, and leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder, still looking at the grass.

"I'm sorry," John finally said. "I can't do this." _I can't lose you_. John felt Sherlock tense beneath him, and after several unbearable moments of silence, Sherlock nodded.

"It's fine," Sherlock said stiffly. "I understand."

John tilted his head up so he could see Sherlock's face. "But this doesn't change anything, you know that right? We'll always be friends," John said.

"Of course," Sherlock replied quickly, but John could see the relief spread across his features. Sherlock shifted ever so slightly and looked at John, and then suddenly they were so close. John could see the individual lashes fluttering against Sherlock's cheek, and he could hear Sherlock's shallow breathing. Sherlock's pupils were blown wide, and John felt it, the magnetic pull of Sherlock that John could never resist.

When they did finally kiss, it wasn't so much of a kiss as a simple brush of their lips, and when John became aware of what exactly he was going, he jerked away instantly.

John jumped up and his cheeks were red, looking at anything but Sherlock. "We can't do this," John said, more of a reminder to himself than to Sherlock.

Sherlock stood up slowly and walked in front of John, forcing John to look at him. "And why not?" Sherlock's voice was challenging, but John could hear the faint tremors hidden under his steady tone.

John hesitated, it would seem so pathetic to tell him the whole truth, how scared he was. "Because.." John said, running his hand through his hair, trying to find a way to say it, "Because it wouldn't work."

He looked away from John at that, and John wasn't stupid enough to not notice the crestfallen look on his face. His heart hurt. He wanted to try so badly, but the consequences…

The bell rang and John quickly went to his next class, feeling as though someone shot between him and Sherlock, leaving a jagged hole in their friendship.

* * *

"This was lovely John," Mary said, smiling warmly at him. Since they were second years and were allowed to leave campus now, he had taken her to the movies and dinner. They were standing in front of her dorm, and her cheeks were still slightly pink from the wind. She was looking up at him through her lashes and John leaned down to kiss her. He'd only meant it to be a goodnight peck, but Mary wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, her back pressed against the door. Her lips were warm and inviting, unlike…

When Mary pulled away, John was flushed and leaning towards her again. He hadn't realized how frustrated just being near Sherlock had made him. "Happy valentines day," Mary said, and unlocked the dorm door. She pecked his cheek one more time and closed the door.

John let out his breath shakily, walking back to his room. It was pitch black in the dorm and John flicked the light on, sighing as he sat on his bed. Sherlock was gone again. These days, he spent more free time in the lab than in their dorm. John couldn't blame him, he'd been doing the exact same thing, but he missed his best friend.


	19. Silver Linings

It sucked. It completely sucked. John would find himself waiting for Sherlock after classes, only to tear himself away when he realized he was doing it. He would get two cups of coffee only to remember Sherlock wasn't there and casually hand it off to Greg.

Nearly three months of this impossible, stilted relationship passed by. Sherlock timed everything so that they would have to barely talk, coming back to their dorm so far past curfew that John doesn't even notice the door opening softly most of the time, and leaving so early that John never even gets a glimpse of Sherlock. In class, Sherlock avoids him and talks to Victor, smiles at him and throws his head back in laughter in the same way he used to with John, and it makes John sad and empty in a way he couldn't describe.

There was only one thing in John's life that was better. And it was laughable how much John didn't care about it now. John's grades skyrocketed now that he had nothing to do except to distract himself by throwing all his time into homework assignment and extra credit assignments. His teachers smiled at him and patted him on his pack, his counselor who had once looked upon him with so much shame and condescension praised him for "living up to his potential." How stupid, John thought, that I once valued this more than anything else. None of it made up for the hollowness in him.

At first, John was so certain that it would pass, the tension between him and Sherlock would fade easily with a case, but as the days and weeks dragged on, John began to think that it was the end of the friendship he'd tried so hard to protect.

The school year was coming to an end, and John threw himself and all his frustration into rugby once the homework load eased. He couldn't have any free, empty time. John would only be able to think about Sherlock and dig himself into a hole of self-pity and guilt.

Of course months of him avoiding his problems had to come to a head, and John realized that while staring at the innocuous sheet of paper in front of him.

 _Students,_

 _Congratulations on almost completing your second year at Newberry. We trust that despite our challenging curriculum, friendships have flowered and unforgettable memories have been created. As you are halfway through your journey in Newberry, we would like to offer all our students the opportunity of making new connections. If you choose to stay with your current roommate, disregard this letter. If you would like to change roommates, then you and your agreed partner need to fill out the form below and submit it to the attendance office._

John swallowed and felt a knot in his stomach. It was a harsh slam of reality against his face, and John clutched the sheet of paper, trying his best to not freak out.

He had to talk to Sherlock, and John was terrified that Sherlock would shrug and end it like that. End what had once been the best part of John.

* * *

John stood outside the classroom, waiting for Sherlock to pack up. They had a free period next anyways, and John figured he could talk to Sherlock then. John fidgeted for a good five minutes before he saw Sherlock come out of the class, and then his heart sank. Victor and Sherlock were together and Victor seemed to be laughing at something Sherlock said. Victor was leaning against Sherlock and smiling widely with his stupid white teeth and tousled hair and did he really have to stand so close to him?

Sherlock saw John waiting outside and seemed surprised. "Hello John," Sherlock said, as though John were a stranger.

"Hey," John said stiffly. "Can I talk to you?"

Sherlock nodded and looked slightly confused, while Victor got the message that it was something private and said bye to Sherlock with a lingering touch on his shoulder. John tried to not notice.

"How are you?" John asked, feeling awkward.

Sherlock cocked his head, brows furrowing. "I'm fine John. Surely that's not what you wanted to talk to me about."

John flushed, looking down. Since when did it become so hard to talk to Sherlock? "Um. No. I just haven't seen you in a while so.." John trailed off.

"Don't be ridiculous, you see me everyday," Sherlock replied.

"Well," John mumbled. "Yeah." He looked up at Sherlock and remembered something he could say. "How's that experiment going?" John asked, "the one with the mold."

Sherlock blinked. "I finished that months ago."

"Right," John said quietly. He was acting like a complete fool. No wonder Sherlock was avoiding him. God, what happened to them? What happened to the late night conversations in their dorm, the thrill of their cases? And their kiss. The barely-there kiss between them that still haunts John whenever Mary kisses him.

"Are we still going to be roommates next year?" John said finally.

Sherlock's eyes widened, taken aback. "I'm rooming with Victor," he said carefully, looking at John with an unreadable expression.

And there it was. The casual indifference Sherlock had towards him now, pushing John away in every instance. John's hand twitched and he suddenly didn't know what to do with them, rest them by his side? Play with his fingers? John looked down and nodded. "Yeah. Of course," he said. Victor Trevor. Of course him. Of course Sherlock would choose him over John.

He looked up after a moment and resolutely looked at anything except for the distaste, and god help him, pity on Sherlock's face. "Well, I'm going to room with Greg," John said with as much pride as he could muster.

Sherlock was quiet. And really. There wasn't anything left to say. John turned around and left first, raising his fingers in a half-hearted wave. "See you later Sherlock," John called out, his own footsteps ringing in his head.

John found Greg several minutes later in one of the dining rooms with his arm slung around Moly and the two of them laughing together. John smiled slightly. Looks like Molly got over her crush on Sherlock. What a shining example she was. John backed away and was about to leave the two of them alone when Greg shouted John's name.

"Hey!" Greg said, smiling brightly. "I didn't see you there until just now, sorry."

'It's fine," John replied, feeling awkward again. The way Greg was looking at Molly even as he's speaking to John. John wondered if he ever looked at Mary that way? He didn't think so.

"Just wondering if you wanted to room together next year," John said quickly.

It was comical, really, the way Greg and Molly's face fell at the same time and a look of pity and concern overcame their features. John sighed. He had told them what happened with Sherlock after them prying for weeks about why Sherlock was never with John anymore.

"Didn't patch things up with Sherlock then?" Greg asked delicately, as if the wrong phrase would send John off sobbing in a corner. To be fair, John wasn't that far off from it.

"No," John said simply.

"I'm sorry John," Molly said quietly, sympathy written on her face.

John nodded, taking a deep breath. He was sorry too.

"Well," Greg said, "We can room together next year if you want John."

"Yeah," John said. He didn't think he could stand much more of the pity and concern on their faces. John said bye to them quickly and left.

John went and studied frantically in the library for the rest of the period, feeling that if he let himself have even a moment of rest, the ache in his heart would spread and poison his entire body.


	20. Something New

It was a new era, John told himself as he set his bags down in his dorm. Greg hadn't arrived yet, so John busied himself with taking out his clothes and hanging it up in his closet, organizing his textbooks on the desk, and feeling completely restless. The dorm looked empty without papers strewn around the tables and chairs, and their small kitchen looked lonely without countless test tubes and mysterious experiments. John huffed at the irony, how many times had he begged Sherlock to clean their goddamned dorm?

John sat on his bed and opened his laptop, scrolling through his emails. Reminders from teachers… An email from his coach, rugby practice tomorrow… Counselor appointment next Wednesday… Dull. It was all so dull.

Oh hell, he was even beginning to sound like Sherlock.

John sighed in relief when he heard a knock at the door. "Yeah Greg," John shouted, "It's unlocked."

When the door opened, John was surprised to see it was Mary standing at the open door.

"Not Greg," Mary said, propping her hip against the door frame. "Sorry to disappoint," she teased, smiling at John.

"Not at all." John managed a smile. Mary looked... nice She had a short flowy skirt on with flat sandals, and she was twirling her hair in her fingers. "What are you doing here?" John asked, sitting up and shutting his laptop.

Mary stepped in their dorm and shut the door. John raised his eyebrows. She came closer and perched on the edge of his bed. "I texted Greg. He won't be here for another three hours," Mary said, playing with the hem of her top. "We could find a way to pass the time." She looked at John from under her lashes.

John raised his eyebrow. "Really? Now?" They'd never gone farther than snogging and some touching.

Mary nodded, moving closer to John. "I haven't seen you in so long, and we're alone. For once." She reached for his hand and held it, leaning in for a kiss. John acquiesced. They kissed for a bit, but before she could reach to tug off his shirt, John pushed her back gently.

"We saw each other over the summer," John reminded her, pecking her lips but not embracing her. "You came to my match two weeks ago remember?"

Mary leaned in closer to him again, moving to his ear. "Yes I do," she hummed. "And I remember how good you looked in that jersey."

She was running her fingers up and down his chest now, and really, John would be a total idiot if he turned her down now. Which was why he found himself saying:

"Sorry sweetheart," John said, catching her hands and stroking them. "I want to do this properly. Not a quick shag on my dorm bed."

Mary frowned, pulling away from John. "I can't believe you don't want to sleep with me. Aren't you supposed to be my boyfriend?" Mary said, narrowing her eyes at John.

John shook his head. "No of course not," he placated. "You're gorgeous," he said, looking at Mary. "I just want it to be perfect."

She was still pouting, but she nodded. "I want that too."

"We'll hang out tonight, okay? John said, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. "But I have a lot of homework I have to catch up on before class starts tomorrow." A lie, but he just really didn't want to be next to her right now.

Mary sighed and got up off the bed. She leaned down and kissed him quickly before grabbing her purse that she'd dumped on the ground earlier. "I'll talk to you tonight," she said, resignation in her voice.

As John watched her leave, slightly slumped over, he supposed that he should've ran and caught her and told her how much he loved her. Instead, he went back to scrolling through his emails, telling himself how stupid he was.

* * *

"Watson! Nice catch!" his coach shouted, and John huffed a brief smile.

John was panting and had sweated mostly through his shirt and shorts when he spotted a tall boy perched on the bleachers in the corner, looking engrossed in a book. John came to a stop and stared, heart pounding irrationally fast. Once he looked closer, he realized that he was too tall, hair brown and straight instead of dark curls. John shut his eyes and looked away, absolutely not thinking about the time Sherlock waited for him after a game and hugged him even though he was so sweaty and—

John was grateful when Mike tackled him for the ball.

* * *

"How are things with Mary?" Greg asked. John was busy with his calculus homework, scribbling in his notebook and not really paying attention to Greg, who was sitting on the end of his bed and looking at John with concern. He'd been trying to make small talk with him for the past ten minutes.

"Fine, yeah we're good," John said vaguely, waving it away.

"You don't seem happy mate," Greg said.

John faltered in his frantic calculations for a second before starting up again. "I am," John said. "I'm really happy."


	21. Epiphany

Sometimes, it would be easy to forget about him. Easy to get distracted by school, or Mary. Easy to pretend that everything was normal and that the extraordinary, dark-haired boy who didn't smile at him in the halls anymore wasn't his best friend. Other times, it wasn't so easy.

Like when the tiniest brush against him in the hall would set off fireworks in John's stomach, like when he heard Sherlock's laughter across the room, a harsh reminder that he wasn't the reason why Sherlock could be so happy anymore.

But still, time passed and the chasm between he and Sherlock stopped hurting as much as it used to, and John had begun to think that Sherlock was just another warped memory, not forgotten, never forgotten, but fading slowly.

And then…

"Class, we're going on a trip to Edinburgh next month." Mr. Verdue announced, excited chatter and a whoop from someone filled the classroom and their teacher had to shout the next part for everyone to hear, "I'm passing around a list of the roommates." Some disappointed groans came from the people near them, muttering under their breaths about how stupid it was that they had to be assigned partners. John, for his part, was glad. It would be too painful to watch Sherlock choose Victor and imagine the two of them in a hotel room, laughing and talking through the night. John knew he was being ridiculous, they probably did that every night anyways.

He grasped the sheet of paper handed to him from Molly, thanking her. He found himself scanning the list of names. And much like the very first night here two years ago, he saw two names that changed the course of his life.

 _Sherlock Holmes & John Watson_

John's stomach fluttered. He resolutely stared in front of him, well aware that Sherlock was just to the left of him and if John turned his head slightly he'd be able to see the expression on his face and that was oh so tempting but. Best not.

They wouldn't be able to avoid each other on this trip, and John hoped that maybe it would be enough for them to salvage their relationship. Maybe if they were forced to spend time with each other and talk. Actually talk. They would be okay.

When the bell rang, John had to stay behind to turn in a late homework assignment. After he handed it to Mr. Verdue, John left, unaware that Sherlock was still in the classroom. John really didn't mean to, but halfway down the hall he realized he had forgotten his notebook and went back to get it. John had stepped halfway through the doorway when he heard the Sherlock's low timbre. Maybe it was the urgency in his voice that made John stop in his tracks, backing away from the door.

"I can't stay with John Watson in Edinburgh," Sherlock said, his jaw tense.

Mr. Verdue seemed irritated by this and he waved his hand dismissively. "I'm sure whatever squabble you and him are having will be resolved before the trip."

"No," Sherlock insisted, almost desperate, and to John it was like a knife through his stomach. Did Sherlock hate him that much? "I can't go on this trip unless I have a different roommate."

"Mr. Holmes. You will likely fail the class if you don't go on this trip. We'll be visiting history museums and galleries, knowledge you can't get here with your nose in a textbook." Mr. Verdue said firmly. "And if I let everyone change roommates, it would be complete chaos. You are going on this trip, and you're staying with your assigned partner. That's final."

John could see Sherlock struggle to not argue or throw a sharp retort at their teacher that would no doubt lead to a detention. Instead, John saw Sherlock swallow down his frustration and nod stiffly, hands fisted tightly at his sides. John knew that the conversation was over and he quickly turned around and left.

* * *

"You alright?"

John blinked and looked up, surprised to see Molly standing by him. She was wringing her hands and clearly concerned.

"Yeah," John said. "Yeah I'm fine."

Molly smiled wryly, "I'm no genius, but you're clearly not fine. You've been reading that line for five minutes, and you hadn't even noticed me now."

John huffed, "picking up something from Greg?" He knew Greg was studying on his own time to become a detective at Scotland Yard, like his uncle.

"We're worried about you," Molly said, after a moment of hesitance. "Greg, Mike and I, even Irene, though she doesn't want to admit it."

"Why?" John said, swallowing a lump in his throat. All those names. Not Sherlock, Sherlock didn't even care about him anymore. "I'm great, better than ever."

Molly shot him a disbelieving look. "I seriously doubt that."

"Really," John said, not sure if he was trying to convince Molly or himself of that. "Don't worry about me." John smiled crookedly and tapped his book, "I've got all that I need here."

She waited a moment, scrutinizing his overly exuberant smile. "You look sad when you think no one sees you."

And that hit too close to home. Because all of this, studying like a maniac for subjects he didn't care about, playing and tackling and running until he fell onto his bunk at night so exhausted and sore that he could hardly move, just to do it all again the next day. Just so that there wasn't a single second where he could stop and think about how much it still hurts, and today, he knew in a month he'd get to spend a whole week in Edinburgh with Sherlock Holmes, the one person he loved more than anything else in the world, and who utterly despised him. Right. He was fine.

"Yeah? Well. There's nothing I can do," John said, sighing.

"That's bullshit," Molly said, quietly but with enough force that John's eyes widened, staring at her.

"What?"

"You're sitting around, all 'woe is me'. That's not true and you know it. You haven't tried to mend any problems between you two, and instead you're throwing yourself into every other possible thing, including a girlfriend you don't love, and doing absolutely nothing about this situation which is every bit as much of your fault as it is his, hoping that Sherlock would come to you, begging for his friend back."

John gaped at her, head spinning. Was she right? Is that what he was doing?

"I-" John stammered.

"You don't have to say anything," Molly said, her expression softening. "Just think about it."

She left John, casually walking away like she hadn't just thrown a bomb at him.


	22. Action

John really did think about what Molly said. He thought about it as he trudged through the rest of his classes, he thought about it as he tackled Anderson at practice, he thought about it while scratching equations on his calc homework, and he thought about it past 1am when there was nothing left to do except wait helplessly for sleep, only to dream about Sherlock's mercurial eyes and the way he smiled, a small tug on the corner of his lips.

John Watson prided himself on his medical expertise, but all the knowledge in the world couldn't heal the gash that Sherlock left on his heart. Only, it wasn't Sherlock's fault. John was the one who handed the knife to him, and the one who forced his hand.

John was a coward. Plain and simple. He'd always criticized Sherlock for not expressing himself, for bottling up his emotions and coming across as cold. But he'd been blind to the fire in Sherlock's eyes when they kissed, the way his voice cracked when he asked John why they couldn't be together. There was passion and anger and brilliance pouring out of him every second, begging to be noticed. John just couldn't see it past the boy he'd painted over Sherlock.

In reality, John was the one who couldn't express his feelings, hiding them away and bottling it all up until he felt like he was burning inside. Sherlock made himself clear and was willing to fight for whatever they had. But, John was absolutely terrified, and he pushed him away.

He was sure of three things.

1\. It was his fault that he lost Sherlock Holmes.

2\. He'd do anything to get him back.

3\. He was scared shitless.

So the next day John came up with an idea. It was a stupid idea, no doubt. But an idea.

Once they were in Edinburgh and sharing a room, no matter how reluctant or how much Sherlock hated him now, he'd be forced to talk to John. And that's all John needed, to tell Sherlock everything. He could only hope that Sherlock would accept him again, and if he didn't, then John could at least be comforted by the knowledge that he really had tried everything.

* * *

The next four weeks passed by agonizingly slowly as John rehearsed over and over and over again in his head what he'd say to Sherlock. It became a mantra to chant in his head. He envisioned how Sherlock would respond. Would he laugh in his face? Would he tell John it was too late, that he'd already fallen in love with Victor? Or would he look at him with pity, the particular kind Sherlock reserved for a rather sad looking stray cat. It consumed his every thought, but the one fantasy he didn't dare on linger on was Sherlock smiling and embracing him. The thought twisted his heart in ways that terrified John.

He passed midterms with his highest marks yet, and only felt a vague, hollow satisfaction, and when his glinting eyed counselor congratulated him on leaving Holmes and focusing on his studies, John only nodded as the weight at the bottom of his stomach grew heavier.

And in that month, Mary broke up with him. John didn't blame her, frankly she was a saint for not doing it earlier. His energy was never one hundred percent focused on her. He was so busy, drawn into his pointless tasks, that they hardly spent time together anymore, and when they did, he was always drifting off.

It was during one of their dates actually. He'd taken her to the cinema, and they were at a small café right after the movie. She'd taken his hand during the movie, and John's stomach turned at how much he remembered the way Sherlock's fingertips felt beneath his. She was colder on their walk to the café, and John knew that she knew.

She looked up at him from the rim of her cup of coffee, green eyes burning and John suddenly felt incredibly guilty. No, she was nothing like Sherlock, no one ever could be, but she was pretty, and nice, and genuinely liked John.

"I think we should break up." Her words were sharp in the quiet of the café. And John felt like it was the rightful end of a long expected trail.

John nodded, and she pressed her lips together into a thin line. John could see her struggling between her desire to yell at John for being the worst boyfriend ever, which he deserved, and wanting to remain civil.

"Whoever she is," she finally said, her voice restrained with bitterness and resignation. "I hope it's worth it."

 _He_ , John corrected in his mind. But he only nodded as she left.

John supposed he should've mourned her. And in a way he did. He mourned the normalcy he had feigned while with her, because even if they were never in love, she was his shot at a typical high school sweetheart. John knew that was not possible with Sherlock, even if in his wildest dreams Sherlock wanted him now, it would never be normal with Sherlock. It wouldn't be coy looks exchanged across lunch tables, flirty notes passed in class, heated make out sessions in the theatre. It would be adrenaline rushes at 3am as he snuck out with Sherlock to chase down yet another criminal, phone calls made to Scotland Yard. It would be elation at morbidity. There was nothing mundane, nothing typical about Sherlock. And Christ, they were only seventeen.

But, as John grew to understand, he didn't want to mundane. He didn't want the life shown in high school movies. He wanted Sherlock, and everything he meant.

* * *

Finally, the day arrived. Mr. Verdue and numerous train attendents ushered his class into the car. It was an eight hour journey. John watched as a laughing Sherlock climbed onto the train, with, as expected, Victor trailing. They sat two rows in front of John, and John clenched his jaw when Victor got closer and closer to Sherlock.

Sighing, he pulled out a book. It was a mystery novel that he'd been reading for the past week. Flipping it open, a wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips. The differences between the Belgian detective in the books and Sherlock were far and wide, but the little lines of the detective boasting of his brain had reminded John, rather painfully, of Sherlock's own pride in his reasoning.

"Hey!" Molly chirped as she plopped down on the empty seat next to him. "What are you reading?"

"Oh, it's just a detective story," John said, grateful for the distraction. He'd hardly been reading anyways, looking up every ten seconds to see if Victor had slung an arm around Sherlock, or something similar.

Molly smiled brightly and asked him about the plot. Really, she was so cheery all the time, John wondered how she did it. As he was half heartedly giving a summary on everything that had happened so far, he found himself glancing at Sherlock through his periphery. Victor had scooted incredibly, uncomfortably close to Sherlock, and his side was almost entirely pressed up against him. Normally, Sherlock would've flinched or moved away at such an invasion of personal space, but he only smiled at Victor and continued talking animatedly.

"Hey, stop that," Molly said gently, interrupting his monologue and he increasing panic in his mind.

John looked at Molly and sighed. "Sorry," he said, "I can't help it. It's driving me crazy, the two of them."

Her eyes were soft and she nudged him with her arm. "I know how it feels to be devastatingly in love with someone. But I've seen the way Sherlock looked at you. Don't give up hope yet."

John found it hard to believe that he hadn't fucked up beyond fixing, but he appreciated Molly's faith nonetheless. He smiled at her and nudged her back. "Thanks for that," he said, sincerely. He really should appreciate Molly Hooper more.

Just then, Irene slinked over to the seats across from him, dragging Mike with her, and Greg came over to swoop Molly into a hug, kissing her cheek. John chuckled as she blushed red and turned to kiss him properly, and he could hear Irene histle next to them.

"Who's ready to parrtay," Irene yelled, earning the whoops of the people nearby. John rolled his eyes, she was ridiculous.

Irene turned to John. "I'm rooming with Kate," she said with a wink, "I know I'll be having a lot of fun."

John and a couple of their friends groaned. Good luck to Kate, there were very few people who could resist Irene when she decided she wanted them. John was just glad that she'd never really tried to pull Sherlock; that would've been awkward.

"Just don't make too much noise," Mike chimed in uncomfortably, "you don't want Mr. Vedue interrupting you two."

Irene cocked her head and smirked, "I don't think I'd mind if he walked in."

A horrified expression came across Mike's face, and John laughed, knowing she was totally messing with him. Mr. Verdue wasn't exactly anyone's idea of a silver fox.

"Well," Greg sighed, "you're gonna be getting lucky with Kate, while I'm stuck with Seb."

"Moran?" Mike asked, grateful for the change in topic. "That kid's crazy!"

Greg nodded, and he could hear Irene snicker. Sebastian was infamous for being the jealous, possessive boyfriend of Jim. One time, he beat up the poor soul who'd tried to flirt with Jim so badly he had to be sent to the nearest hospital. It was a wonder that he'd survived, John heard Seb had boxing parents and had a black belt in taekwondo

Molly twisted to rest her head on Greg's shoulder, "oh he's not that bad," Molly said, "I've talked to him a couple times. You're totally good if you stay away from Jim."

Greg looked slightly relieved, "that's fine, I'm not exactly dying to spend time with that psychopath."

"John, who are you rooming with?" Irene asked, turning her attention back to him.

"Sherlock," John mumbled.

She wiggled her eyebrows, tapping a perfectly manicured nail to her chin. (really, John wondered, how did she have the time to do her nails when they were all stuck at the boarding school?) "Well," she said slyly, "the two lovebirds getting back together in a hotel room? Not a bad visual."

John blushed furiously and waved his hand, "it's was never and it's not going to be like that," he muttered. "Can you just drop it."

Irene squinted at him for a moment, looking thoughtful. She must've saw the pleading on his face though, and dropped it.

They spent the next couple hours talking about school and Mr. Verdue's strangely shiny head, musing if he put oil on it every morning, and John was laughing so hard tears were rolling down his face. He was happier, and somehow the prospect of facing Sherlock later became less terrifying surrounded by his friends, knowing that there was something he could fall back on. Plus, the inevitability of the talk with Sherlock had somehow lifted a weight off John's shoulder, as he accepted that he will do everything he could to win back Sherlock, praying that it'd be enough.


	23. Confessions

The bus rolled to a slow stop in front of a hotel, and John notes that It's one of the chains he sees across Europe. The bus was subdued; most people were still sleeping. He glances over at Greg, who had his mouth tipped half open and head lolled onto Molly's shoulder, and then he catches Molly's eyes, who give him a small smile before gently shaking Greg awake.

John stretched and stifled a loud yawn, shutting his book and stuffing it in his bag. As the rest of the bus roused and started lining down the aisles to get off, John felt the tight coil of anticipation and terror rise up again in his stomach. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock tight up against Victor on the bus, and Victor looking at him resting on his chest with a foolish grin. John wondered if he'd looked at Sherlock like that too.

It was a long ride.

They got into the hotel, and Mr. Verdue was running frantically from one reception desk to another, trying to get everything settled before people started complaining (too late). The chatter in the lobby rose and John felt sick as he watched Victor pull Sherlock into the far corner, fingers dancing over his collar and the hem of his shirt, and Sherlock, who John could make out laughing and wrapping his arms around Victor. John tore his eyes away and told himself to get a grip. Yes, enjoy Edinburgh! He'd never been before. He looked around the lobby, ah yes, a chandelier. There were also, two, three, four, no, seven leafy plants.

Irene, who'd been standing next to him and witnessed the whole spectacle, including the idiot and Victor flirting in the corner, nudged John.

"Hey, stop thinking about it," Irene said quietly. When John saw the concern on her face, for one terrible moment, he'd considered calling off the whole thing. It was painful. John already knew what the answer would be, and he could only imagine the well-intended but cloying sympathy he'd get from his friends. John mustered a smile and nudged her back, "Nah don't worry, I'm just thinking about that plant over there, is it a Fichus?" Irene rolled her eyes, but seeing that John definitely didn't want to discuss it anymore, they talked aimlessly for fifteen minutes about the different types of leafy green plants.

Then Mr. Verdue came over, flushed, looking like he'd just been in an argument.

"I'm sorry Mr. Watson, but they don't have any double rooms left, it's going to have to be a single king bed," Mr. Verdue said apologetically, and John knew that he felt bad about making him and Sherlock room together after Sherlock's outburst, and more or less declaration of hatred for John.

Wait. That meant he'd be sharing a bed with Sherlock. That was somehow his greatest nightmare and dream in one. John nodded, and Mr. Verdue seemed relieved that he wasn't about to have a fit, and after handing the two room keys to John, he walked away to another student.

Irene turned to him, raising her eyebrows. "Well, maybe you two will resolve your issues in a more… enlightened way," she said, winking at John. John laughed and shook his head, knowing that was about to be the last thing that could happen.

John watched as his class disbursed and headed off to their rooms, and then Irene left with Kate after pinching his arm and whispering good luck After gathering his nerve, he went over to Sherlock, who was still enraptured in conversation with Victor. Sherlock though quieted the instant he saw John coming over, and there was an awkward pause before Victor patted Sherlock's arm and walked away too.

"We should probably head up," John said, somewhat awkwardly, "it's getting late."

Sherlock nodded and they walked in stilted silence towards the elevator "So, um, how are your classes?" John asked, trying to make conversation and feeling all the words he wanted to say clog up in his throat.

"We have the same ones John," Sherlock said, with a slight grin that told John he was teasing. John felt relieved, and God, he hadn't seen that smile directed towards him in so long. Too long.

John smiled, "Yes, but catch me up on your life anyways."

Sherlock blinked, looking almost surprised, before getting that twinkle in his eyes and John knew that the some of the ice between them had melted.

"I'm conducting an experiment on the mold found in showers," Sherlock said brightly, and John grinned.

"That sounds interesting. Tell me, what's in my showers?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, "Well, not sure yet, I have to set it on fire first."

John laughed and turned to him fully, "Oh? Like that time you almost blew up our microwave." _Our.._

Indignation crossed over Sherlock's face and John laughed harder. "Alright, but it was accident," Sherlock protested, "I wouldn't have actually let our dorm explode." _Our._

John rolled his eyes, "wouldn't put it past you," he smiled widely at Sherlock, feeling a bubble of happiness in his chest.

"Have you taken on any more cases?" John asked, feeling more at ease now as they walked down the hall towards their room.

A strange look came into Sherlock's eyes, and there was a tension laden pause before he replied quietly that he hadn't tried any cases since the last one he and John went on together.

John remembers that one so clearly. It was late at night, like most of their cases (adventures), and somehow they'd ended up at the beach. It was a stunning night, and the Thames was quiet, waves rocking gently against the shores. They actually had figured out who the killer was, and after Sherlock made the call to Scotland Yard, they were content to just stay on the lakeside for a bit. They were so far away from the center of London that John could actually see the stars, and he had grabbed Sherlock's arm excitedly, pointing up to the Big Dipper. There was so much. So much that could have, that didn't, happen that night, and John remembers stolen glances and the shine of Sherlock's eyes in the moonlight, brushes of fingertips and soft smiles.

They came to the front of the room, and upon seeing the room number, they exchanged a look. The bright plaque on the oak door, sure enough, was 221.

"Oh god, they gave us our old dorm number," John laughed, "what even is this?" Sherlock grinned in response and took one of the keys to open the door, and the light flickered on.

Right. Oops. John turned to Sherlock, "it's a king bed, they didn't have any doubles left."

Sherlock tensed up, and John could kick himself. Of course Sherlock was uncomfortable; he should've tried to switch rooms with someone or something. "Um, is that alright?" John asked awkwardly, watching Sherlock's expression carefully.

Sherlock nodded slowly, turning away from John. "Yes," he said. The pleasant buzz that John had felt earlier faded, and they unpacked in silence only interrupted by doors closing and muffled laughter. At one point, it became so overwhelming that John turned on the telly and tried to find a good program, only to give up after a few minutes.

Well, John thought, looking at the clock, might as well put this night out of its misery. It was only 11:30, but there was really not much else to do. He headed to the bathroom and got ready for bed, brushing his teeth and changing into somewhat threadbare, but soft, t-shirt and shorts.

When John came out of the bathroom, he didn't see that Sherlock had looked up from the book he was reading, and caught on John for just a moment too long. Sherlock got up a few moments later and went to the bathroom too.

John sat on the edge of the bed and tried to figure out how this sleeping situation was going to work. He supposed that he could take some pillows and sort of line up a barrier if Sherlock wanted. He was in the process of arranging them when Sherlock came out.

Oh. Sherlock had on an oversized sweater that sloped over his shoulders, and ridiculously tight shorts. How could someone look so vulnerable and yet so hot at the same time. After gaping for a solid minute, John cleared his throat and looked away.

"Which side of the bed do you want?" John asked Sherlock, who was rummaging through the closet.

"No it's fine, I'll just take the floor," Sherlock said, pulling out an armful of blankets.

John stared at him, dumfounded. Was Sherlock really so disgusted by him? He thought that things were better. "

"Don't be ridiculous," John said, "You can't sleep on the floor."

Sherlock shook his head and laid down some of the comforters on the carpet, "Oh I'm alright, I'll just sleep on these."

John blinked, standing up. "Sherlock, the bed is huge, and we shared a room for two years," John said slowly, surprised that Sherlock was _so_ opposed to the idea of sharing any space with him.

"Really," Sherlock insisted, "it's fine."

"I don't understand," John said, frustrated, "Do I really bother you that much?"

"I'm just trying to not invade your space John," Sherlock snapped.

"You're not invading anything, I think we're capable of sleeping on the same bed for three nights."

Sherlock huffed, "I'm trying to save you embarrassment," he muttered.

John looked at him, bewildered. "Embarrassment?" He repeated.

"Oh please, don't be coy," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "We both know you don't really want to have anything to do with me."

John stared. "Excuse me? What about you?," his voice was rising, "I'm not the one who abandoned you Sherlock, you were the one who stopped talking to me."

Sherlock laughed, a sharp, mocking sound. "As if you gave me another choice. You pushed me away."

John stepped forward. "Don't you dare. I tried," John could feel his voice about to break, "so hard to stay with you."

"Oh right," Sherlock scoffed, standing up and fully facing John. "You tried so hard that you couldn't even look me in the eyes after what happened in the garden."

John froze, he didn't think Sherlock would bring up the kiss.

"No," John said, "that was not my fault. You stopped coming back to the dorms, you started hanging out with Victor all the time," John pointed an accusatory finger, "and left me. "

"What?" Sherlock said, "Why are you dragging Victor into this?"

"Because all you do is spend time with him!" John knew that some of this anger was irrational, but he couldn't stop it now that they were arguing.

Sherlock moved closer. "And why do you even care John?" He asked harshly.

"Because, " John said, stuttering.

"Yeah? Why? You didn't seem to care about me back then, so why now?"

"You idiot," John mumbled.

Sherlock kept goading him, "why do you care about Victor?"

"He's always there!" John said, a tight ball of words unspoken in his throat.

"Why does that matter!?"

"Because I used to be him!" John was almost shouting now, "I used to always be there next to you."

"Oh are you jealous John?" Sherlock said, with a sarcastic twist of his lips that made John so frustrated.

"He's just irritating," John said, trying to compose himself and not say anything stupid. This was not the time.

"Oh please," Sherlock rolled his eyes again, "We both know that's not true. Why do you care about him so much?"

"Goddamnit Sherlock," John cursed under his breath. But Sherlock would not let it go.

"Yes, please, tell me what it is about him that makes you actually feel things?"

John's eyes snapped up to Sherlock's face, and for a moment he just stared at Sherlock.

"Shut. Up," John hissed. "Don't say that, I always care about you."

"Oh really?" Sherlock said, disbelieving. "Then why did you push me away so many times?"

"Because," John tried to start, not even knowing what to say.

"Because? Because? Yeah there isn't an answer John," Sherlock snapped.

"BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, AND I WAS TERRIFIED," John shouted, not realizing what he'd really said until Sherlock's eyes widened. John covered his mouth immediately, but it was too late.

Nononono, John muttered, it wasn't supposed to be like this. He had a whole plan for telling Sherlock how sorry he was and then how much he wanted him back in his life. This was. not. the. plan.


	24. Small Resolutions

John had always fancied that when he first said those three words, it would be over fireworks and shooting stars.

… not a fight past midnight.

Stunned silence had fallen over the room, and Sherlock was still staring at him. It was the first time John had ever seen him truly speechless.

"I. I didn't," John stuttered. What, he didn't mean it? Yes, he meant every word. But Sherlock was not supposed to find out like this, he wasn't really ever meant to.

"You… love me?" Sherlock repeated slowly.

John sighed and sat down on the bed, putting his face in his hands. He couldn't take it back now.

"Yes," John said finally. "I do." Before Sherlock could say anything else John continued, "I know that you hate me, and that you're with Victor, but. I do. I have for a long time."

Sherlock still looked shell-shocked.

So John continued, trying to get it all out. "That's why I did so much stupid shit, I wanted you so badly that I was scared by it," John huffed, "I was skipping out on school to be with you, I didn't care about anything else but you. And... that was terrifying."

"No," Sherlock said, looking up John with so much emotion that John shut his mouth instantly. "You don't get to do that."

"What?" John said.

"You broke my heart," Sherlock bit out. "When I kissed you you ran away from me. What choice did I have?" Sherlock clenched his fists, looking distraught and John just wanted to sweep him into his arms. "I've been trying to get over you," Sherlock muttered. "you can't say this to me now."

John didn't know how to absorb all of this. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock liked him? He felt a wave of guilt crash over him at the expression on Sherlock's face. Yeah, he was a dumbass.

"I'm so sorry," John said quietly, "I was an idiot, I know that now. Can you ever forgive me?'

Sherlock didn't say anything for a while. John stood and moved hesitantly closer to him, feeling a swell of oh so breakable hope in his chest.

"Please," John murmured, "I've missed you so much."

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to his and oh, they were close and collided and they were kissing. Sherlock's lips were chapped and they weren't quite positioned right, but John was certain that he'd never known anything better.

When they finally pulled away for air, John rested his forehead against Sherlock's and exhaled slowly.

"I haven't forgiven you," Sherlock said.

"I know," John whispered. "I will spend forever trying to make it up to you."

* * *

"Wait,' John asked later, the question burning on his mind as they sat and talked about everything and nothing. Like their first night. "So you're not with Victor."

Sherlock shook his head, "No," he said, a hint of laughter in his voice, "he's straight as a pole, and I talked his ear off about you all the time."

John smiled, reaching over to clasp Sherlock's hand. "God, I was so jealous of him. Whenever I saw you and Victor together I just kept wishing that it was me and not him."

"He could've never replaced you."

John leaned and kissed Sherlock again, softly. It was becoming his favorite thing to do.

"So, wanna be roommates again?" John asked, grinning goofily at Sherlock.

Sherlock pretended to think about it. "No you're a terrible roommate."

John hit his shoulder, laughing. "Hush. We can probably convince Mike or Victor to switch."

"Alright," Sherlock conceded. "But only if you kiss me again."

Not a problem.


End file.
